Stairway from Zion
by daymarket
Summary: AU. During the same raid that had Castiel crashing through the windshield of Dean's getaway car, Dean loses both Sam and Anna to the angels. Human and angel should hate each other, but life has a funny way of changing the preordained path.


**Title**: Stairway From Zion

**Rating:**So R

**Warnings**: Mentions of torture. Violence, war scenes, cursing, drug withdrawal, medical experimentation, species prejudice, sex.

**Wordcount:**63k (oh my god what is wrong with me)

**Summary:** Orwellian AU. During the same raid that had Castiel crashing through the windshield of Dean's getaway car, Dean loses both Sam and Anna to the hands of the angels. Human and angel should hate each other as circumstances dictate, but life has a funny way of changing the preordained path.

((()))

_1.1: Castiel_

.

The raid on the dealers' den goes off without a hitch. From beginning to end, it takes no more than an hour of the angels' time, with a full warehouse of Croat and four dealers to show for it. One of the dealers was shot in the skirmish, but the other three are kneeling with their hands laced behind their heads. Castiel watches them, waiting for Uriel to finish his sweep of the warehouse.

Arel salutes him briefly as she walks out of the warehouse. "Nearly sixteen hundred pounds of uncut Croat, sergeant," she reports. Castiel gives her a small nod of acknowledgement as he turns his attention back to the dealers. Now that he's looking for it, he can see the faint pinpricks on their arms where they've injected themselves with the drug.

Castiel looks up as the sound of screaming greets his ears. Uriel comes out of the warehouse, bodily hauling a thrashing woman who's no doubt high out of her mind on Croat. "Let me go!" the woman screams as Uriel fights to keep a hold on her. "Damon, help me, help me—"

That seems to be the cue for the three on the ground to break into frenzied action. Castiel throws his wings open, catching one of the dealers square in the face with the flat surface of his wing as the man attempts to make a break for freedom. He falls to the ground, rivulets of blood streaming down his face from where the wing cut him. The other two men have lunged for Uriel, fighting to wrest the woman from his grasp. Arel moves to Uriel's rescue, hauling one of the men away and stabbing him hard in the neck with a hypothermic needle, or hypo. The woman and the other man crawl to their knees, clutching each other with a tight grip as Uriel advances onto them. "Melissa—" the man breathes. Their mouths make contact for a brief moment before Uriel kicks them apart.

Castiel snaps his wings shut and turns his attention to the man at his feet. He studies him clinically for a moment and judges that the wounds are non-fatal before putting him out with a hypo to the neck. "Uriel," he says without looking up at the strangled cries of the man. "Sedate them and be done with it."

The man falls silent, and Castiel turns his gaze back onto the woman. She falters and drops heavily to the ground, crawling forward towards Castiel. Uriel intercepts her before she gets there, pulling her roughly back onto her knees. "Please," she whimpers, her bottom lip trembling. "Don't—don't—

She never completes the sentence, breaking down instead into wordless tears. Castiel ignores her needless hysterics and gives Uriel a nod. She struggles weakly, but the tranquilizer of the hypo works efficiently enough that she's out within seconds. The three angels stand around the slumped bodies of four humans, ready for transportation back to the Nest of Purity.

Rachel walks over calmly from where she was cataloging the crates of Croat. "Shall I put out the call, sir?"

Castiel nods. "We're done here. We'll need one transport for the Croat and another for the humans."

Rachel obeys, calling the Nest of Justice. A few minutes later a disposal team drives up in a transport. Humans in white biohazard suits jump out and start loading the Croat into the vehicles, while a second patrol of the Host loads the prisoners into a transport van. Castiel dismisses the humans from his mind and instead regards the plain metal crates as they're carted one by one into the truck. Each one contains over a hundred vials of clear Croat, enough to keep a hard-core junkie going for months.

He's never quite understood the appeal of it. Croat supposedly stimulates the production of adrenaline in the body, causing an increased heartrate, sharpened senses, and above all, an addictive high. Still, the benefits hardly outweigh the cons: increased irritability, high suicide rates, dangerously high heartrates. There's no way to bring someone down from it, either, no drug or antidote that can counteract its effects except time. And yet, it's increasingly popular among the rebels and one of the biggest nuisances the angels have to deal with, as if they didn't have enough to do already. The demon underground that produces it never hurts for lack of a market.

"Lord, what fools these mortals be," Uriel said as if reading Castiel's thoughts.

"Croat is a plague upon our people," Castiel agrees automatically, walking over to examine the crates. "These are forty-percent potency," he adds, pointing to a discreet label on the boxes. "Their addictions are worsening."

"Once a Croat, always a Croat," Uriel says dismissively. "They strengthen the demons' hold upon them. Letting them rejoin the flock is a mistake."

Castiel looks at him steadily. He and Uriel have been comrades for a long time and that permits a certain freedom of conversation between them, but there's a line between comradeship and direct defiance of the Word. "Rehabilitation is the Father's decision," he points out mildly. "We aren't worthy to question his commands."

"Of course," Uriel says, looking away.

They don't say anything else, standing in silence until the disposal team finishes loading. Arel and Rachel join them, their wings already unsheathed from their holsters. "All done, sir," Rachel says. "Do we act as transport guards?"

Castiel shakes his head; he's already discussed this with the transport supervisor. "No," he says, unsheathing his own wings and shaking the gleaming steel feathers out. "Zachariah wants us back at headquarters as soon as we've finished here. Let's go."

He catches the supervisor's eye, and the man gives a short nod. Castiel gives the signal and the four of them take flight, setting a course back towards the Nest of Peace. The flight back is quiet, and the beat of the steel wings is almost like a second heartbeat as they move up and down through the air. Castiel takes the peace while he can, but he also sets a hard pace back towards headquarters. Zachariah doesn't often summon them, but it's nearly always urgent.

It takes about ten minutes of direct flight to arrive at the Nest of Peace. Zachariah is waiting for them in the courtyard, watching them approach and land. "I received the supervisor's report," Zachariah greets Castiel as they assemble themselves into formation. "Good work."

"Thank you, sir," Castiel demurs. "We were only doing our duty."

"Castiel," Zachariah says, shaking his head slightly in admonishment. "Don't think so little of yourself. Your squad has done excellent work since your promotion, and I believe that you will continue to perform as well in the future."

"I have my team to thank for it," Castiel says, staring straight ahead.

"Yes. But you've lead them well since…well." Zachariah's lips press together into a thin line. "Perhaps this conversation should take place elsewhere," he decides. "In a more private locale, perhaps. Follow me."

He begins to walk back towards HQ, a set of blocky gray buildings across the barracks yard. Zachariah remains silent as he leads them to his office in the headquarters. Castiel repositions himself to stand at attention as Zachariah seats himself behind the expansive desk, and the others line up behind him.

"The Nest of Omniscience intercepted these photos yesterday," the seraph says, sliding a manila envelope across the desk. "We have a lead on Anael."

Castiel doesn't say anything and neither do any of the others, but he can feel the sudden tension in the air. He reaches out for the envelope, opens it, and pulls out half a dozen black-and-white photos—security photos. After looking at each one, he passes them to the others, where they receive the same intense scrutiny. "Yes, sir," he says when he's done with all six. It's a good phrase: punctuation, waiting for Zachariah to speak again.

"Those photos were taken on the outskirts of Zion by a border patrol," Zachariah says. His lip curls slightly in contempt, showing teeth. "The men in that picture—the one with the long hair's been identified as Samuel Winchester. He's a Croat, a dealer, and a hunter."

Castiel tilts his head slightly as he considers the name: Winchester. He's heard that before somewhere. "Sir," he says slowly. "Any relation to John Winchester?"

Zachariah rewards him with a tight nod. "His father, actually. Formerly one of the Chosen, but…you can see how that worked out. There's also a brother, Dean Winchester." Zachariah takes the photos back, rifles through them, and holds a particular one up. "You've recognized Crowley, certainly," he says a little dryly. "No doubt arranging another contract for Croat. We've been unable to ID the other one," he says, pointing at a little figure whose face is hidden in shadows, "but we're fairly certain that it's Dean. Two of them are as thick as thieves. And of course, there's Anael." He points to a woman with long shadowed hair, her face clearly outlined even in the poor lighting.

Zachariah tosses the photo back onto the table and leans back in his chair. "Our intelligence says they've set up a rendezvous at the abandoned factory near Virtue Street. You know the one—it used to make construction equipment until it was appropriated for the good of the Republic. We don't know the time of the meeting, but we do know it's tomorrow."

Castiel nods. "Yes, sir."

"Your objective," Zachariah says. "Interrupt the meeting. Try not to terminate anyone, as we'll need them alive for questioning. This goes doubly for Crowley, if he's there, or any of the other leaders of the underground—Alistair, Lilith, so on and so forth. And of course, Anael." Zachariah steeples his fingers. "We'll definitely want her alive. So she can relearn the Father's infinite…love."

"Of course, sir," Castiel says obediently, ignoring the sudden chill that moves up his spine. "Will we be working alone?"

Zachariah raises an eyebrow. "Do you think you need backup?" When Castiel doesn't reply, Zachariah's gaze latches onto him for a long moment before examining each of the other angels in turn. "You should know," Zachariah says at last, "that you've been chosen specifically for your prior knowledge of Anael. You know her movements. You know the way she'll act. You're the best people possible to predict her actions and apprehend her on the spot." He pauses. "Can you handle that?"

Castiel stands up straighter at the questioning of his ability. "Of course," he says.

"Good, then," Zachariah says, leaning back in his chair. "At any rate, sergeant, no, you won't be working alone. This is a big mission, and we're pulling out two other squads to join you. Twelve should be enough to take them apart. And remember—do try not to terminate. We want them alive for the Nest of Love."

Castiel raps out another crisp, "Yes, sir!" Zachariah's eyes linger for a moment longer before he nods and dismisses them. Castiel walks stiffly out of the office, trying to shake the itch between his shoulderblades as the seraph's eyes follow them out the door.

They actually make it all the way to the main barracks before Arel snaps. She's the newest of them all, having only joined the squad after Anael's betrayal. She's a genius with explosives and pyrotechnics but lacks a distressing amount of self-control. "Sergeant?" she asks as they're putting away their equipment in the locker room.

"Do your duty, Arel," Castiel answers without looking at her. "That's all the Republic requires from you."

Arel falls silent, but Castiel can tell that she's not satisfied with this answer, not at all. He sighs, wondering how best to handle this. "She's an angel who lost faith," he says at last. "She was our former sergeant, as you may know, but she turned her back against the Republic and the Father." He finally turns to look at her, meeting her gaze. "She'll be punished, of course."

"Loved," Uriel rumbles, and Castiel gives a short nod in acknowledgement of his mistake. Of course; the Father's love isn't punishment at all. "The Nest of Love never forgets, Arel," Uriel says, picking up the narrative where Castiel left off. "She'll return to glory soon enough."

Arel looks a little pale, and for a moment Castiel thinks that they've told her too much. Her mouth opens slightly, but the next moment she says a quiet, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," and the moment passes. Rachel, who's been quiet during all this, finishes polishing her dagger and heads out to the practice grounds for a little hand-to-hand combat. Arel takes her leave as well, leaving Castiel with Uriel.

"Can you handle this, brother?" Castiel asks finally, looking directly at the other angel. Uriel sneers at him.

"Can you?" he retorts, and Castiel gives a small shrug. "You were her second-in-command."

"I do my duty," Castiel says. "It is what it is. But your judgment is clouded, Uriel."

"Why do you say that?" Uriel says sharply.

"The Father will judge her," Castiel says calmly, "so who are you to decide beforehand?"

Uriel makes a short, ironic bow, his hand held over his heart. "I, of course, have faith in the Father," he says. "But we're angels, and it's our duty to convey his love, don't you think?"

Castiel gives a little sigh. "Try not to get anyone killed, brother," he advises wearily.

"Mud monkeys, kill me?" Uriel says, using the common epithet for the Croat rebels.

"I was thinking the other way around," Castiel informs him, and Uriel gives a short bark of laughter. "You heard what Zachariah ordered. No termination."

"As always, I hear and obey," Uriel says. And it's true—Uriel always obeys. They all do. That's what it means, to be angel: obedience to the seraphs, obedience to the Father, obedience to the Republic.

It's just that some are more enthusiastic in their pursuit of obedience than others.

Castiel doesn't hear the door close as Uriel walks out. Instead, he pulls his steel wings out of their sheath and takes time to polish them meticulously, cleaning the steel feathers until they gleam. It's soothing work, and he loses himself in the monotony of motion.

((()))

That night, Castiel finds himself on edge and unable to fall asleep, turning restlessly in his bunk. The soft rhythm of the others' breathing is normally a soothing chorus, but tonight he finds himself unable join it. Rising, he pads out of the communal sleeping quarters and into the main room. He sits down at the table set there, staring fixedly at the metallic gray surface. Zachariah has faith in him, and he's not required to think anyhow. All he has to do is his duty, and that's enough.

Right?

Castiel inhales sharply and pushes himself away from the table, pacing restlessly across the room. Closing his eyes, he draws up dull and murky memories of Anael. Her eyes, her expression. He should have known, he should have reported her when she could still be saved. And now she's beyond redemption, and the only thing that awaits her is the Nest of Love, and he might have to—he—

You're thinking too much, Castiel, he chides himself. Who is he to question the will of the Father? He's an angel, and all he has to do is to follow orders. Crash the rendezvous. Capture the people involved. Bring them back to the Nest of Love so that they can literally be dissected alive.

Right…

Castiel shakes himself, absolutely appalled. What the—no. No. He's doubting. He's…who is he to question the Father? And if he's questioning, disobedience can't be far behind, and then next thing you know he'll be Falling, just like Anael did—

Castiel hurries to open the cabinet on the wall, pulling out a small metal box with clumsy fingers. The box is separated into compartments, with each compartment containing a dose of Grace. One a day is usually sufficient, but for situations like these, well, another one seems appropriate. He fills a glass of water from the tap and swallows one of the little white pills, closing his eyes as it goes down.

Grace works quickly. Castiel feels his heartbeat calming almost immediately, and his fingers loosen their tight grip on the glass. He feels a coat of cool, glassy calm settle over him, smoothing out his chaotic thoughts: he's a soldier. The past is past. Only the Father is real.

He closes the box and puts it back in the cabinet. This time, when he settles back into his bunk, he falls asleep almost immediately.

((()))

He arrives back at the barracks before the dawn call. The others are already up, and he nods in approval as he sees that they're already equipped and ready to go. The other sergeants, Muriel and Phariel, arrive a few minutes after the dawn call with their respective squads. Phariel has a blueprint of the old factory, and they spend a few minutes reviewing their positions before the order officially comes for departure. "Ready to go?" Muriel asks as she unsheathes her wings. Castiel answers her with a short nod.

Zachariah himself comes to see them off. Twelve pairs of wings unfurl towards the sky, the sun glinting dully off the shaded steel. They've already coated them in camouflage paint to dull the reflection, but still, it's an awe-inspiring sight. As he takes flight, Castiel can't remember why he doubted the night before or that he ever considered disobedience. How anyone could turn their backs on this, he'll never know.

They descend half a mile away from Virtue Street; flying in is far too conspicuous. Three civilian vehicles are already parked and waiting for them. The drive is short, but Castiel takes the opportunity to map out the possible angles of attack in his head. The Grace he took this morning helps him with that, as it turns everything crisp and clear and into cool logical lines. Muriel parks first, a block away from the warehouse. When her squad comes out, they're virtually indistinguishable from ordinary civilians with their equipment tucked away in the trunk. Castiel and his men follow suit; they'll be positioned across the street, while Phariel and his men will take the perimeter and sky.

"Beta squad, it's a go." Muriel says. She's in position; time for them to move.

"Let's go," Castiel announces, sliding out of the car.

It's a cool day, which just the right amount of breeze. They settle into position across the street, and Castiel begins the wait.

((()))

Up in the sky, Phariel's the first one to see them. "Incoming," he says.

Castiel signals silently to his team, and he notes with approval the smooth coordination with which they assume their positions. Castiel's positioned near the door; of the ground forces, he's the first one to see the humans exit the car. Three exit from the backseat, two from the front. The one in the front passenger seat has long brown hair and a familiar face. "ID on Sam Winchester," Castiel breathes. "Keep an eye out for Dean."

"Demons are coming round the back," one of Phariel's team reports. "Two hired idiots and Crowley himself."

"More from the side," Muriel says. "No side of Anael yet, though."

Castiel closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, allowing the calm from the Grace he took earlier that morning to seep through him. When the humans step through the door, they're close enough to his hiding place that he can almost lean forward and touch them as he goes by. Three men enter—the other two must have stayed outside, then. Muriel's voice in his earpiece reports that three others have entered from the side exit, while Crowley and two of his goons have come in from the back. That makes nine people inside the warehouse, with at least four more outside.

Well. Twelve angels. Thirteen humans and demons. It should be simple.

The warehouse is a dank, gloomy maze of old boxes and decrepit machinery. Castiel moves slightly to keep the humans in his view, careful to stay in the shadows. "Arel, Rachel: intercept the demons. Muriel, take your squad and cut off the exits. Uriel, with me: we'll take the humans. Phariel, keep your squad in the air, tell—"

Castiel blinks as a shadow appears at the end of the aisle. It's a dog, ears up and teeth bared as it stares at him. Castiel wonders briefly just how the dog got past them, but puts it aside as a problem to worry about either. Well. The humans weren't completely stupid, then—Castiel knows that in the next half-second, the dog will bark and their initial advantage will be lost. Well, they'll just have to move faster, then. In the milliseconds left to him, Castiel makes a new decision, raises his gun, and shoots one of the humans through the neck. The stun hypo dissolves without a trace just as the dog starts to bark.

"Canine," Uriel growls. He switches guns with a quick, fluid motion and silences it before it can bark again. The warning's already out, though, and the humans and demons burst into frenzied activity. Castiel knows without hearing it that Phariel and his squad will be moving to cut off the exits and mop up the ones left outside. He moves, calm instinct guiding his motions as he fires twice more, each hypo taking down another rebel. They're scattering now, making a run for the shadows. Castiel picks his target—a short, dark haired woman. As she turns and runs, he follows in pursuit, his gun steady by his side.

The warehouse is big, and she's small and slight enough to slip into crevices that Castiel can't manage. He loses her somewhere around a stack of girders, unable to discern her shape in the gloom. Sight's useless—he closes his eyes and allows his hearing to dominate his senses. His own heartbeat overwhelms him for a moment—he pushes it aside and lets the other sounds flood his ears.

There. There's a soft, very subtle hitch in breathing. He raises his gun, aims for the sound and—

Someone barrels into him, knocking his arm off-target and slamming him into the wall. Castiel shakes his head, momentarily disoriented before slamming his elbow into the attacker's guts. His attacker's big with a definite size advantage, but the tremble in his arms as he catches hold of Castiel tells him that he's dealing with a Croat user. They fall to the ground in a tangle of limbs—Castiel gains his footing first, twists the man's arm back behind his back and shoves him up against the wall.

He's fumbling for his stun gun with his free hand when a slender hand grabs hold of his hand and twists. Castiel lets go of the man as pain floods his arm, stumbling back and staring up into the eyes of the woman that he was chasing. She doesn't hesitate before she clocks him around the jaw, sending him falling to the ground.

Castiel rolls to his feet and regains his balance just as she attacks. She's got a knife and knows how to use it: the first arc of the knife barely misses his face, and the second slices through the arm of his uniform to reveal a thin line of blood. Castiel blocks the knife with his hand on the third swipe and knocks it out of her hand. She retaliates with a kick to his kneecap that sends him sprawling.

And that's when Uriel arrives. With cool efficiency, he takes down the man with a hypo to his neck. The second one catches the woman in the back; Castiel watches her fall as he gets to his feet and dusts off his clothing. She's still within a matter of seconds, and will be out for hours. The next time she wakes, it'll be in the Nest of Love.

"Good work," he says to Uriel as he wipes the streak of blood off his arm. "How are the others?"

"Bagged and awaiting the mercy of the Lord," Uriel says with cold satisfaction.

"As it should be," Castiel says automatically. He leans down and brushes the man's long hair out of his face. "This is Sam Winchester," he says after a moment.

"Still no side of Dean, though," Uriel says with a frown. He taps his earpiece. "Alpha and beta: apprehended S. Winchester and unknown female. Any sign of Dean?"

"None so far," Rachel says. "We've gotten the rest, though. Exits are blocked; prepare to clear out. Muriel will finish the perimeter check."

"Copy that," Uriel says. "We're on our—"

The gunshot is surprisingly loud. Uriel's eyes are wide even as he falls to the ground, his final words unspoken. Castiel throws himself to the ground even as a second bullet strikes over his head. "There's one left," he growls into his earpiece. He stays close to the ground, his eyes searching the shadows around them. He can hear hurried footsteps—whoever it is isn't going for subtlety.

"Sam?" a hoarse male voice calls. Castiel shoves himself up from the ground and fires twice in the direction of the sound. He can tell from the sounds that neither of the hypos hit their target.

The sounds of harsh panting quicken. Castiel edges along a decrepit machine, following the moving footsteps. The rebel—Dean, at a guess—is running away, probably towards the exit. Castiel fires off a quick command which Arel acknowledges with a crisp, "Yes, sir." There's no way out for Dean, at least not from under the wing of the Host. Castiel jumps over a pile of discarded trash and body slams Dean, shoving him to the ground and forcing the gun out of his hands. Dean reacts quickly, though, rolling over and shoving all his weight against Castiel's aching wrist. With a hiss of pain, Castiel kicks him off and pulls free, but he drops the stun gun in the process. There's a frozen moment in which they both stare at it, and then Dean lunges forward and kicks it under a rusting heap of metal.

"You're trapped," Castiel pants, ignoring the waves of pain emanating from his wrist. "There's nothing but the Lord's mercy left."

Dean's eyes flick back and forth, searching for an escape. "Fuck you," he rasps. "And go to hell while you're at it, asshole."

His hand reaches inside his jacket pocket, and Castiel finds himself moving as through molasses as Dean yanks the pin off a grenade and throws it in Castiel's direction. Castiel has just enough time left to duck as the wall behind him explodes into flame, sending splinters of wood and metal flying. The explosion catches the back of Castiel's uniform, sending him crashing into the machinery. Dean takes advantage of this and runs for the open air at the other side of the hole, jumping through the burning wood to freedom.

"Dean's on the run," he snaps over the com. He does his level best to get up and manages it on the third try despite the roaring in his ears. Gripping the edges of the hole for support, he forces himself out after Dean.

The world outside seems strangely bright, like a film of plastic has been peeled away. It's also spinning ominously: that explosion did something to his balance. Still, there's no time to waste in pondering such niceties, not with Dean on the run. He has a few yards' worth of a head start. Still—where's he running to? Castiel knows that with Phariel in the air; Dean can't get far—

A car skids to a halt a few feet ahead of Dean, its doors swinging open as it approaches. Castiel judges the currents of air and unfurls his wings, just managing to catapult himself onto the trunk of the car as it pulls away. His bruised wrist screams in protest as he clings grimly to the trunk, and he has to twist his lower limbs upward as Dean fires two bullets through the windshield, cracking the glass. "Phariel!" he grunts as his grip on the edge of the trunk starts to slip.

"We see you," Phariel says. "Hang on, Castiel. We'll catch them before they get to Oldtown."

Castiel doesn't bother acknowledging the reply. There's no time—he's going to fall if he stays like this. Castiel closes his wings with a snap and throws all his weight against the windshield. As it's already weakened by the bullets, it splinters—not good enough. Pain blossoms across Castiel's stomach as Dean fires the gun again, and the impact is almost enough to send him falling off. Somehow, he manages to hold on, and with a titanic effort he rolls over, smashes through the weakened glass, and tumbles heavily into the car. Dean throws himself against Castiel as he lands and pins him flat against the window, twisting his arm up behind his back. Even through the pain, Castiel can feel the cool metal of a gun up against his temple.

"Don't shoot him!"

Castiel's breath hitches slightly in shock. Dean's grip looses slightly, enough for Castiel to turn his head and see a flash of red hair. Anael's face is white, her eyes wide as she takes him in. "Don't, Dean," she says, and Castiel knows in a flash that she's become weak—and weak is something that the Host should never be.

Dean seems shocked as well. "What the hell, Anna?" he demands, not moving the gun.

"Get us out of here," Anael snaps to the driver. "Oldtown's not three minutes away; their air forces will have a hell of a time trying to catch us there."

Dean's grip on Castiel tightens. "Sam's still in there!" he shouts. "We can't just leave him for those bastards to kill!"

"They won't kill him, not yet," Anael says, and a detached part of Castiel's mind notes that even as a renegade, Anael still does understand how to lie without actually lying. Sam Winchester won't die. He'll just wish that he were dead. "Head for Oldtown, now!"

Dean lets out a guttural growl of frustration. "Anna, you better—you better have a plan. God damn you, if you're just going to let my brother—" His grip on Castiel's arm tightens as he says the words. Castiel fights against the hold, but he's weakening and fast.

There's a heavy bang from above as an angel lands on the roof. Castiel feels rather than hears the thump of landing, and Dean's shouting seems to come from a long distance away. He sags as Dean lets go of him, his muscles weak and watery for some inexplicable reason. He can feel the slick heat of blood from the bullet wound as it coats his stomach, and in that same instant he knows that he's not going to survive this. He's not upset, though. The stark clarity of the Grace leaves no room for dismay.

And so it is, for the glory of Heaven, Castiel thinks muzzily before the pain swallows him and everything goes dark.

((()))

"…shouldn't even be here. What were you thinking, bringing an angel into HQ…"

"…her fault, don't blame me. Now how the fuck are we going to get Sam back?"

"…mopping your shit up. This was supposed to be a simple resupply mission, now we've got a bunch of crazed junkies on our hands…"

"...should've gone into rehab years ago…"

"Will you all just shut up! This isn't time to—"

"Shut up, Jo. I think he's waking up."

Castiel opens his eyes. He closes them again immediately, wincing at the blinding light coming from above. Taking a deep breath, he takes stock of his situation. His wrist and stomach hurt, which is logical considering his recent injuries. What's not logical is the fact that he's alive at all.

"Okay, angel," a brusque male voice says from above him. "Don't try to move, you'll rip off your fucking bandages." Aside: "Not like you can, anyway."

Castiel tries to move his arms and finds that the statement is true: his wrists are tied to…whatever he's lying against. Same for his ankles. He makes another try at opening his eyes, this time forcing himself to focus on the colors above him. Long hair—a female face. Two of them.

"I don't even know why we're doing this," a familiar male voice growls, and it takes Castiel a few minutes to recognize Dean's voice. "We should just kill him and get it over with."

"You could've let him bleed out on the upholstery. I notice you didn't," a light male tenor retorts. "So I wouldn't go around throwing stones if I were you."

"Oh, stuff it, Gabriel," Dean snaps, and Castiel vaguely recognizes the name. He grunts and tried to pull free of the restraints, but they remain firmly locked around his limbs. "I'm not going to be babysitting him."

"You brought him here."

"Because Anna wanted me to!"

"Well, if you haven't noticed yet, Anna's gone!" the other man—Gabriel—snaps. "None of us have time to keep tabs on a renegade angel."

"And I don't either, goddamit. Sam's been captured and I'm sure as hell not going to leave him in there. I don't know if you understand the concept of family, but—"

"Anael's been captured?"

It takes a moment for Castiel to realize that that's his voice. It sounds raspy and deep and he doesn't recognize it at first. It effectively breaks up the argument, though, as Dean and Gabriel stop arguing to look at him. "You're surprised?" Dean snaps bitterly. "I thought that was the whole point."

"He speaks!" Gabriel cries. "Hallelujah, praise the Father and his whole fucking creation. We didn't even have to get out the pincers."

The snide tone clicks something in Castiel's brain, and he twists his head as much as he's able. He manages to catch a glimpse of the man through the corner of his eye: a short, brown-haired man with a high forehead and a slight curl of his lip. _The archangel_, Castiel thinks, noting it down. The one who abandoned his post. The one who disappeared. Incidentally, the one who's supposed to be dead.

Castiel tilts his head, observing him: something's off; he's too animated, too vibrant. It takes a few more moments to understand the difference, and the realization causes him to take a deep, painful breath that tugs at his ribs. "You're off the Grace."

"You guys are addicted to that stuff," Gabriel says, waving a finger in his direction. "As bad as demons and their Croat. I'm going teetotal, abandoning the material world and all that."

"Grace?" Dean demands, echoed by the unknown women. "Fuck. How long before withdrawal hits?"

Grace. Castiel blanks out the babble of questions that follow, doing a few rapid calculations in his head. He doesn't know how long he's been out, but Grace is supposed to be taken daily. Castiel takes another deep breath, letting the pain ground himself. He's not panicking. Grace never allows for panic. If his chest does feel a little tight, it's a purely physical reaction.

Dean's voice breaks into his thoughts. "So what're we going to do with him?" he says. "We can't just leave him tied up here forever. If we're not going to kill him, can't we just supposed to dump him somewhere for the Host to pick up?"

"You can," Gabriel drawls, "but they'll kill him when he returns. No angel ever leaves the Host. Well, to be more accurate, no angel ever returns to the Host. Even if they're captured, the Host will think that they're…ah…contaminated. It's safer to eliminate."

"So what's going to happen to Anna?" Dean asks, and the mention of Anna does that strange thing to Castiel's stomach again. "And—Sam. What will they do to Sam?"

A detached part of Castiel notes the undertone of pain in Dean's voice. Gabriel's voice is quieter as he replies. "Anna will be killed. Well, they'll probably torture her first to see what she knows, and then she'll have a very public execution. Sam…well. They won't kill him."

"Just torture. Oh, well, that makes it all so much better," Dean says.

"Well, they'll leave him in one piece, if it makes you any better," Gabriel says.

Castiel's eyes are closed, but he can hear Dean's fist striking the wall in frustration. "I'm not babysitting the angel," Dean announces before he storms out of the room. The room is filled with a tense silence after his departure. Castiel grunts as he tries to pull free of the restraints. Whoever tied him down knew what they were doing, though, and the restraints hold firm.

"Relax, little brother," Gabriel says, laying a hand on his shoulder. "We're not going to kill you. Just lay back and enjoy the ride, huh?"

Castiel feels the faint prick of a needle into his arm, and his eyelids droop involuntarily. He fights the sleep back as much as he can. "The Host will find you," he says, or at least tries to say. His mouth doesn't seem to be working properly, and the last few words come out as a garbled mess.

Gabriel seems to understand. He lets out a short huff of breath. "I'm sure they will. But I've been avoiding my dear brothers for a long, long time, kid, and I figure I've picked up a trick or two." His face appears in Castiel's blurry vision. "Save your strength and leave the threats behind. Once Grace withdrawal hits, you're going to feel like you're in hell."

Castiel wants to correct him, tell him that the torture rooms are actually called the Nest of Love, not Hell. He loses the battle to stay awake before he can manages to get the words out, and not for the first time in the past few days, he falls unconscious.

((()))

_1.2: Gabriel_

"Tell us what you can, Gabriel."

Gabriel tilts his head to look at the map of Zion on the table. He knows it by heart: after all, he's spent enough years hoarding information about every inch of it, starting from his position at the Nest of Omniscience and ending as a 'rebel' in this laughably pathetic rebellion. There are few very holes in his knowledge; the Nest of Love, though, just happens to be one of them.

"I don't know," he enunciates clearly. "How many times do I have to tell you? The Nest of Love is under direct command of the Nest of Glory, and I had nothing to do with it."

"You ran their freaking spy network," Dean Winchester growls. Gabriel watches him, idly analyzing the reddened palms of his hands, no doubt from striking a wall in frustration, and the expression on his face, discerning the likelihood that he'll lose control and go at Gabriel with fists and feet. "How can you not know where their fucking torture chamber is?"

"Since said torture chamber is run by one of the most secretive bastards of the Host and purportedly has no set headquarters," Gabriel retorts. "Look, the Nests of Peace or Justice would have a better idea than I do—I bet Zachariah lives next door to the Nest of Love."

"Well, we don't have Zachariah!" Dean explodes. "Some archangel you are! I bet you're still in league with the Host, huh, Gabriel? Getting ready to stab us all in the back?"

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. "Temper, temper, Dean-o. Didn't your father ever tell you what happens when you assume things about other people?"

Dean's eyes narrow at the mention of the f-word. Gabriel automatically shifts his stance, ready to fight. Fortunately (or unfortunately, Gabriel thinks), Bobby Singer lays a hand on Dean's shoulder, holding him back. "Now hang on there, son." He looks at Gabriel. There's distrust in his eyes despite the placating tone of his voice. "Gabriel, you sure you know absolutely _nothing_? None at all? Not even a hint?"

Gabriel huffs through his nose. "Huh. Well, if you wish on a star, maybe a flying pink pony will come down and lead you to the Nest. Other than that, I got nothing."

"Fuck you, Gabriel, this isn't a game!" Dean snarls, lunging forward. Bobby holds him back, but it doesn't look like he's trying very hard. "This is Sam and Anna we're talking about. I know you don't give a shit about Sam, but what about Anna, huh? Wasn't she your sister?"

"She's not actually my sister, you know," Gabriel says thoughtfully. "I mean, I like her and all, but we're not actually blood-related."

"Damn it!" Dean shouts. "What, you're too good to talk to us pathetic humans now? Maybe you should go to the demons, if that's the case! Run with them in Hell—"

Sudden, impatient anger flares in Gabriel, and he shoves the chair back as he stands. He pins Dean with a hard look, sick of the whole charade. "You listen to me, you little bastard. Don't fucking act like you know who or what I care about," he says, his voice cold. "Hell can't pull another answer out of me, because I damn well _do not know_." He opens his hands in an expansive gesture. "But go ahead. Why not? How far are you going to go to find this out, Dean? You might even want to try on our newest catch—after all, he's fresh from the Nest of Peace, who knows what he knows? With detox ahead of him, you won't even have to try very hard to torture him. You know all about that, don't you, Dean?"

The color drains from Dean's face. Gabriel meets his gaze squarely, watching as the anger in Dean's eyes briefly turns violent before flooding with something very like shock. "I'm not—I wouldn't—I'm not a fucking torturer!"

"Aren't you?" Gabriel says cuttingly.

Dean sags, his gaze falling. "I—" he says, faltering into silence.

"Enough! Gabriel, get out," Bobby says, a bit too late. He gives Gabriel a nasty look that Gabriel returns. He gives Bobby a cold nod before sweeping out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Out in the quiet of the hallway, he leans against the wall and breathes deeply. _Damn it. _He doesn't like conflict; he makes it a point to avoid as much of it as humanly (or angelically, hah) possible. The fact that he's not trusted, though, not after _ten bloody years of Falling_—that grates on him every time, loath as he is to admit it.

Anna had it easier, he muses. Wonder what her secret was. Wonder if new kid, if he doesn't die in the detox and/or torture, will be able to pick it up as well.

(He knows that he's speaking in the past tense about Anna, and for a very good reason. No one who's left the Host can ever leave the Nest of Love alive.)

((()))

_1.3: Castiel_

Grace is required for everyone in the Republic: one pill daily, no exceptions. Castiel's followed this rule faithfully every day of his life, never even considering disobedience. The punishment for disobedience—punishment that Anael will face—is harsh, but that's not why he keeps to the path. It's because that Grace sharpens the world until there's nothing but black and white, and he can't imagine life without it.

But whether he wants it or not, this is life without Grace. And it is absolutely, completely Love in every sense of the word. Castiel wakes up with his mouth dry and cramps racking his lower stomach. His head feels like someone's trying to split open, and even the dim light from the lamps makes his eyes water and burn.

There's a short woman sitting next to him as he painfully opens his eyes. She turns to look at him, her eyes wary and watchful. "Thirsty?" she says, and Castiel manages to give a short nod. She fills a glass with water and tips it so he can drink. He takes a few swallows of water before leaning back.

"How long?" he manages, not sure at all if she'll answer.

The woman runs her hand through her long blonde hair. "Since you got here? A bit more than a day." She sits for a moment in silence and then says quietly, "How bad is the pain?" He doesn't reply, and she adds, "I've never taken Grace, but I hear the side effects are pretty bad."

Castiel forces himself to pull a deep, steady breath, ignoring the stabbing pain from his ribs and the cramps. Pain is irrelevant; this is more important. They've known for a while now that there was a rebel community outside the Republic's control, but this is far more than they imagined. This woman must be at least twenty years old, and she's never taken Grace. That means that the roots of the rebellion have been there for much longer than they've thought. "You've never…" he rasps, and then breaks out coughing as his still-dry throat protests. Each cough sends a sharp jab of pain along his ribs.

"Nope," the woman says. "Surprise, huh?"

He doesn't bother to answer that, focusing on moving instead. His arms are still tied down, but the straps around his legs are gone, letting him curl into a more comfortable position.

"So," the woman says as he moves. "I can't keep calling you 'creepy angel guy' in my head forever. You have a name? It's got to end in 'el,' right? You guys were never big on creativity."

Castiel looks at her through bleary eyes and considers it for a moment. This is harmless information, and it could only serve to buy him trust if he answers. He weighs the pros and cons for a moment more before the ache in his head stops his thoughts. "Castiel," he says at last.

"Castiel. That's a nice name. Well, it's an angel name, but it's a pretty nice one, I guess. I'm Jo."

Jo. Castiel glances at her face and fixes her image in his memory through the pain in his head. Jo, mid-twenties, female, shoulder-length blonde hair—he manages that much before his headache forces him to stop. "Where am I?" he demands.

Jo raises an eyebrow. "You don't waste time, huh." As Castiel remains silent, she says, "You're in no shape to plan an escape attempt, so don't bother. Which reminds me…" She unclips a small black box from her waist and enters a message into it, nodding as it beeps in response. "Dean wanted to know when you woke up. I think he wants to yell at you or something."

Dean. Dean Winchester. The name is vaguely familiar in his head. Castiel closes his eyes and summons up what he can. Zachariah showing him the case files. Crowley, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, the warehouse. Anael. And waking up, when by all rights he should be dead.

Castiel opens his eyes and searches the woman's face. She has a strange look in her eyes that he can't identify even with his comprehensive training in primitive facial movements, and right now it seems like too much effort to try. He opens his mouth to say something else, but stops as dizzy black spots sweep across his vision. The cramps grow worse by the second, and it takes all his training to substitute for Grace and keep him from screaming.

A cramp wracks his stomach, and he finds sour heat filling his mouth as he vomits. Jo's there with a wastebasket to catch some of it, but the rest of it dribbles down the side of his mouth and onto the floor. Castiel slumps over the side of the bed for a moment, his entire body feeling unnaturally flushed and hot.

A rough, warm cloth pats his chin, wiping the worst of the vomit away. Castiel doesn't look up, but some leftover Grace in him lets him analyze Jo's hands, both of them, on the wastebasket. The hands holding the cloth belong to someone else. "Shit," a familiar male voice says. "Okay, man. Easy. Deep breaths."

Castiel lets himself be pushed back onto the bed like a child, unable to muster up the energy to resist. Dean looks down at him with a small frown, the cloth held in his free hand. Castiel can't read his gaze, and Dean's body language gives away no hints to what's going through his head. Some last remnant of energy in Castiel forces him to meet Dean's gaze, to try to understand the man's motives.

"Maybe we should sedate him," Jo says.

"You can't, not without Croat to ride the detox out. He'll puke anyway and choke in his sleep if you do," Dean says, not looking away. "Anna almost asphyxiated her first night here when I tried that."

"So maybe we should give him a shot of Croat?"

Dean shakes his head. "No."

"Why not? It'll ease the pain."

"It's not a good idea," Dean says, his voice flat.

"Damn it, Dean! You want him to go through detox solo?"

Dean doesn't look away. It's a long moment before the tension finally breaks. Dean places a hand on Castiel's forehead and brushes his sweaty hair to the side. He sighs and closes his eyes briefly before opening them again. "Look, Jo," he says, his voice much stronger, "the aftereffects of Croat addiction are much worse than a few hours of pain. It's better to ride it out." He hesitates, and then Castiel can feel Dean's hands on his wrists, undoing the bands that hold him to the bed.

"What're you doing?" Jo says, sounding wary. "You know Mom said that we shouldn't—"

"Well, I'm assuming that since we've already gone to all this trouble, that the idea is to _not _let him die his first night," Dean says, his voice harsh and containing an undertone that Castiel can only identify as resentment. "Besides, how exactly is he supposed to plan an escape like this?"

When Jo next speaks, her voice is much softer. "Dean," she says. Castiel approach Dean warily, almost as if he's a wounded wild animal, down but not out and still infinitely dangerous. "What're you planning to do?"

"You think I'm going to torture him?" Dean says, not looking at her. "Use all the tricks I picked up from the demons? Take revenge for Sam?"

There's a heartbeat of silence. It stretches on, and Castiel knows there's an entire conversation going on without a single word being said. There's something that he can't understand going on here, despite all his training in primitive psychology.

"Dean," Jo says finally as she places a hand on his arm. "I know that ever since your dad died, you—"

Dean explodes into motion, shoving her hand away. "Don't mention Dad," he says between clenched teeth. "How many times do I have to say this, Jo? I'm fine."

"You're not fine," Jo says, standing her ground. "It's been barely two months; no one expected you to volunteer for the meet! Even Bobby thought it was weird, that you would deal with the demons so soon after John's—"

"Shut up!" Dean snaps. His voice is grating enough that even Castiel knows that it's filled with the emotion _anger_. "Damn you, Jo, not now!"

"Shouting's not going to change the fact that you need help!"

"Oh yeah? And I suppose you're the one qualified to talk me through my woes? If you haven't noticed, Jo, we're living in an underground bunker trying to beat an impossible enemy. Oh, and did I mention that our best source of information and my brother are in the hands of said enemy? Now is not the time to get my head shrunk."

Castiel knows from his psychology texts that extreme banal urges cause irrational actions, effectively mimicking the effects of Croat. This is good in battle, because individuals afflicted with extreme emotion are easier to take down than opponents with Grace. In this particular case, though, Castiel thinks that the advised action would be to stay down and stay quiet, especially in such a weakened state. Despite his best intentions, though, Castiel finds himself curled up as another cramp shakes him and he ends up vomiting again. There's nothing left in his stomach, but he gags anyway.

The two humans spring into motion. Jo picks up the wastepaper basket again while Dean's arms wrap around his shoulder. Castiel tenses and closes his eyes in anticipation: the logical action here would be for Dean to incapacitate him. That's what the angels do; they take down their opponent while the opportunity is available. Instead, Dean's hand rubs circles along his back in a slow, rhythmic motion. "That's it," Dean says over his head. "Let it all out."

"How long does this last?" Jo's voice asks.

"Couple days, give or take." One of Dean's hands slides from his back to his forehead. "He's running a fever."

Castiel opens his eyes. He can see Dean's face hovering just in front of his, his eyebrows knitted and a small frown on his face. This isn't how it should be going. Illogical, it's completely illogical. He could be—_is—_dangerous. They should take him out while they can, because if and when Castiel gets back on his feet, he'll show them the Father's mercy.

"Right," Jo says decisively. "Well, I'm going to give him some Croat to ride it out. We can deal with the addictions later." She looks at Dean, who sputters in protest but abruptly cuts it off as he looks down at the trash can.

Castiel tenses at the word _Croat_. No. No. Croat is poison. It's worse than poison; those who touch it fall from the Father's sight, become shadows of their own selves. "No," he mumbles. As Jo fumbles with the needle, he says in a louder voice, "No!"

"What?" Dean says, looking down at him.

"No Croat," Castiel says, working hard to make sure each word comes out clearly. He reaches out and grips Dean's wrist hard, fighting the dizziness that threatens to swamp him.

"He's not in his right mind," Jo argues. "Look, Castiel," she says, her voice softening. "A bit of Croat will help you through the worst of the pain. It's just a small dose, so you won't get addicted."

"No," Castiel says.

"I'm sorry, Castiel, but you'll thank me later—"

"No," Dean says, catching her wrist as she moves to inject Castiel. "He said no."

"He's not rational," Jo says. "He's suffering and in pain!"

Dean shrugs. "If he's a masochist, that's his problem."

Jo frowns. "You can't seriously be that heartless, Dean."

Dean laughs harshly. "I'm glad that you have such a great opinion of me. Look, he doesn't want it, okay? It's against their code, or something. Anna was the same."

There's a moment of silence. Castiel glances at Jo and sees that her mouth is slightly open as she stares at Dean. "You and Anna—" she begins, then stops. She bites her lip and glances from Dean to Castiel and back.

Dean stares back at her, and Jo inhales sharply. "Get out," Dean says.

"Dean—"

"I said get out."

Dean doesn't say anything more, but there's a clatter of metal as Jo sets the needle down. She leaves quietly, closing the door with a _click_ behind her. Dean settles down next to Castiel, breathing hard.

"Anna knew you," he said suddenly. "She told me not to shoot you. You're going to give me a reason for that?"

Castiel closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing.

"You're just going to sit there and ignore me?" Dean asks.

Castiel nods. Dean huffs softly.

"Well," he says. "I'll give you points for honesty, then. I'll take off a million for Sam, though." He lets out a low growl. "Gabriel says that he doesn't know where the Nest of Love is. What kind of fucked up name is that, anyway?"

An appropriate one, Castiel thinks distantly.

"I don't know if you do. Gabriel was an archangel. I'm guessing that you're not, huh?"

Castiel says nothing. A long moment goes by before Dean speaks again. "Damn it," he mutters. "Fucking angels."

Despite the epithet, his grip is gentle as he tilts Castiel's chin and wipes his face clean. Castiel doesn't have the strength to pull away, but he keeps his eyes closed against an expected blow. It doesn't come.

((()))

Castiel drifts in and out of a strange half-doze for the next few days. He vomits a few more times, knows that he's soiled himself once or twice. He has dreams, strange dreams that he can't quite separate from reality. Gabriel comes, but Castiel can't focus very well to hear what he's saying. Dean's there as well, but the same problem persists.

He hears Anael's voice, too. Not often. It's like a half-imagined, half-real phantom at the edge of his consciousness. Reality and imagination jumble together, mixed with a heady dose of pain, vomiting, and cramps. Sometimes he wonders if he's dying, and knows that it's all wrong: he's not meant to wonder. Grace paints a straight line, with no room for maneuvering. But now he's off the path, and he doesn't know where he's going.

Angels were never meant to fall from grace.

((()))

As if from a dream, Castiel wakes up.

There's a vital difference between now and all the times before: there's no nausea. No splitting headache. There's a dull ache in his ribs and wrist, but compared to the agony of the past few days it's nothing.

He opens his eyes. He's still in the same room as before, but some things have drastically changed. For one, he's not restrained anymore, although the door is closed and probably locked as well. His clothes are different as well; someone's taken off the tattered remnants of his uniform and replaced it with a plain blue shirt and drawstring pants. There's bandaging around his ribs and wrist, but the wrappings are neat and clean. All in all, he's in much better shape than he was when he was first captured.

He feels weak enough that it takes him two tries to push himself to a sitting position. Dizziness swamps him, and it takes him a moment or two to regain his composure. He braces himself on the bed for support, noting distantly that the ties for the straps are gone as well. He swings his feet over the side of the bed and tries to stand.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Castiel looks up to see Gabriel in the doorway, and he straightens his posture instinctively. It takes him a moment to remember that this is a renegade, a traitor of the Republic. "What do you want?" he says, his hand dropping to his waist for a moment before remembering that his weapons are gone.

"Relax," Gabriel says. "I would think that your current situation is infinitely preferable to the kind clutches of the Nest of Love." He comes a few steps nearer to the bed and lounges against a table nonchalantly. He's eating some sort of red thing that Castiel can't identify. "Well, you're alive, even if you look like shit. Feeling any better?"

Castiel watches him warily for a moment. When he doesn't reply, Gabriel gives a short, sardonic laugh. "Yeah, yeah," he says. "Angel stoicism and all that. I gave up all that a long time ago, believe me. The human way's more fun, although I don't think so much of the demon way." He shrugs. "Well, when you have one, you've got the other."

Castiel remains silent, his eyes flickering around as he searches for a way out. "There isn't one," Gabriel says, correctly interpreting his look. "And you're in no shape to launch a grand escape, anyway. Not without some decent food in you. You look like you're going to fall over any moment, kid." He fumbles in his pocket for a moment before pulling out a plastic-wrapped stick. Stripping off the plastic, he reveals a round red core, which he offers to Castiel. "Lollipop? Not very nutritious, but tasty."

Castiel stares at it blankly for a moment. What type of ploy is this? He's prepared for physical and psychological torture, and no doubt that this is the latter. He's a little thrown off by the lack of physical torture: while he's in much worse physical condition than he was before his capture, he doesn't think that it's the result of intentional torture. No doubt that they're planning a psychological route in. He tilts his head and studies it for a moment, calculating his odds. He's too weak right now to resist them, whatever they're planning. If he goes willingly, perhaps they'll consider him to be more pliable and loosen their guard.

"No?" Gabriel shrugs and pops the red core into his own mouth. "Your loss. No doubt you could use something more filling, anyway." His eyes flicker up and down Castiel's form for a moment. "Want to get out of this room?" He holds out a hand.

Castiel comes to a quick decision: he'll go along for now and try to find his wings. In the meantime, he'll collect information to escape with at the best opportunity. He takes Gabriel's hand. The _renegade_ pulls him to his feet and waits as Castiel steadies himself. "So!" Gabriel says as he opens the door to the room by keying in the numbers on the keypad. He blocks Castiel's view of his hand with his body, stepping back only when the door's open. "Your sixteenth day in a rebel hot zone. Thoughts, suggestions, comments?"

Castiel doesn't answer, his focus taxed as he tries to both stay on his feet and observe his surroundings. The former is far more difficult than he expected; there's a terrible weakness in his limbs that keeps him from utilizing all his concentration.

They emerge from the room into a brightly lit hallway, cluttered with boxes and other random paraphernalia. Castiel guesses that the base is underground, although some parts of it could extend to the more disreputable areas of Oldtown—the parts ruled by the demon underground. A few other rebels squeeze past them as Gabriel leads them confidently down a series of twists and turns. Castiel expects the hostile looks they give him, but he makes a note of the sideways glances they give Gabriel as well. He's not trusted here among the renegades.

A few more turns, and Gabriel leads him into a larger room filled with large tables. At one end of the room is a table with trays of multicolored objects in them. Gabriel fills two trays full of different items. Sitting Castiel down at one end of a table, he slaps a tray down in front of him. "There you go. Just like the Nest of Joy used to make, huh?"

Castiel stares at him and then at the objects. Gabriel gives a snort. "It won't kill you. Tastes like shit, but hey, considering the crap they fed you lot in the Host it's a huge step up."

Even with the hint, it takes Castiel another moment to realize that that's _food_. Multicolored, bright food, very different from the prepackaged angel fare. Castiel threads his fingers together, trying to ignore the strange sensations coming from his stomach. They're trying to wear him down. It's not a tactic he's familiar with, but the basic response is the same: ignore it.

"I didn't know Ellen gave the okay to take him out of his room."

The voice behind him saves him from the temptation. Castiel looks up to see Dean standing at the other side of the table, his arms crossed as he stares at Castiel. Castiel feels his heart skip a beat and grits his teeth as he presses a hand to his chest. This is a sign that he's losing Grace. He's losing control.

Gabriel gives Dean a wave, but Dean's expression doesn't change. "Dean!" Gabriel says. "Join us?"

"Nope. You're supposed to be in the briefing room, Gabriel," Dean says.

"Was just going there, but I couldn't neglect our guest, now could I?" Gabriel says.

Dean grunts. "What're you doing with him, Gabriel?" he says, his voice hard.

"I care about all my brothers," Gabriel says as his lips curve up. "I'm giving him the grand tour. Also, now that he's not dead, trying to ensure that he stays not dead."

The aggression in Dean's stance increases. "You weren't supposed to be in his room. How'd you know that he was awake, anyway?"

"I have my ways," Gabriel says with a shrug. He steps over the bench and motions for Castiel to follow. Castiel finds himself unwilling to rise, but he does so anyway: it's the tactical decision, the right one.

"Where are you going?" Dean demands.

"I thought I was wanted in the briefing room?"

"And you're bringing _him_?"

"Why not? It's not like we're actually discussing anything important," Gabriel says.

Dean's eyes darken at the statement, and Castiel finds himself wondering at the motivation behind the action. He tries his best to analyze Dean's posture for clues, but it's strangely difficult. Castiel shakes his head, trying to force the cloud of fog out of his head. He can't afford to be weak, not now. Dean notices the motion; when Castiel next looks up, Dean's studying him with a frown. "He looks thinner," he says.

"Yeah. Hence, the food," Gabriel says, waving a hand at the trays.

Dean hesitates before turning away. "Not my problem," he says.

"So what am I supposed to do with the kid here?" Gabriel asks his retreating back. "I can't just let him wander around."

"You should return me to the Republic," Castiel interrupts before Gabriel can reply. His stomach twists slightly as both Gabriel and Dean train their gazes on him. It's a strange physical reaction that he's never had before, and repetition would be inadvisable.

"Don't think so, no. We just spent two weeks detoxing your sorry ass. Plus, they'll kill you if you return," Dean points out.

Castiel looks back at him steadily, working hard to keep his breathing calm and steady. It's surprisingly difficult—adrenaline is something he understands, but this is different. His body works against him, conspiring to quicken his breathing and heartrate in ways that Castiel can't control. He doesn't understand Dean's motivations here, but understanding is not his priority. He needs to return to the Nest of Peace. He absolutely _has _to, because the longer he stays here without Grace, the further he'll be drawn into sin.

"That is something I can accept," he says finally, and he watches as the lines around Dean's eyes deepen. He can't even begin to unravel the reason behind the action, but he's saved from having to do so as Gabriel gives out a short huff and slaps Castiel on the shoulder.

"Actually, I think the others would be interested to know that our guest's woken up," he says. "Why don't we all head down to SR together?"

Dean's lips thin and tighten as he gives a curt nod and walks away. Castiel's stomach does that strange twisting motion again, and Castiel twitches involuntarily as a wave of…_tightening_…races up his spine. Breathe, he reminds himself, closing his eyes.

((()))

Somehow, Castiel manages to stand up and move a sizable distance without falling over despite the hated weakness in his limbs. After a short walk, they arrive in a large, brightly lit room. He's scrutinized by at least a dozen pairs of eyes, demon and human alike.

Evidently, this is SR.

"Heeeere's Castiel!" Gabriel announces loudly behind him, and Castiel can see the others' faces contort in displeasure. He spares a thought briefly to analyze the disparity of this situation: Gabriel Fell many years ago, yet it's clear that the rebels don't truly accept him as one of them.

"Cut the theatrics," a low male voice growls. Castiel looks at the speaker: a short, bearded man with a cap on his head. Castiel watches as Gabriel slides smoothly ahead of him, giving an elaborate shrug as he does so.

"Hey, you said come, I came. Wow, that sounds really dirty." Gabriel pauses for a moment. "Anyway, salacious wordplay aside, I live to serve. When I can, of course."

"He looks like he's about to fall apart," a female voice says. A woman leans forward, eyes scrutinizing Castiel intently.

"Sixteen days of detox do that to a person," Gabriel says, waving his candy around. "I don't know, something about the puking—"

"Shut up," the woman orders. She focuses her gaze on Castiel. "Sit down before you fall over."

Someone pushes a chair out for him. Castiel stares at it for a moment, trying to work through the angles to this situation. His head feels light, and despite his best efforts to focus, nothing is clear anymore. He's Graceless and alone.

"Sit," the woman repeats, and Castiel gives up the fight. He sits.

"Well," a harsh female voice says decisively, "enough of this tiptoeing around. Harvelle, I'm going to add another demand to the list. We want the angel."

"Excuse me?" the woman, Harvelle, asks.

The other woman stands up, her lips twisted back to bare her teeth. "You heard me. Winchester's incompetence lost us some of our best agents. You owe us."

"Owe you?" Harvelle says. "Whoa, don't you think you're getting ahead of yourself, Lilith? How do we know it wasn't _your_ idiocy that brought the angels down on us?"

"Winchester's the one who chose the meeting place," Lilith says. "But hey, I'll stop pointing fingers right now. Give me the angel and we'll call it even."

"Whoa now, keep your panties on," Gabriel says, stepping forward. "Who do you think you are? Nobody's giving you anything, demon."

"You keep out of this," Lilith snaps at him, the expression in her eyes not unlike some of the Father's most vengeful angels. "We haven't forgotten what you did, Gabriel, so shut your trap or you're next."

"Ooh, I'm so scared," Gabriel says.

"Enough! You're not getting the angel," someone says, and Castiel looks up to find the most unlikely advocate—Dean Winchester. "If you wanted him, Lilith, maybe you should've been quicker to say so."

"Why, Winchester," Lilith purrs, but her eyes are flat and hard. "Of course you have a right to him. After all, he's the one who captured your brother, who no doubt is currently enjoying the fine hospitality of the Nest of Love this very instant."

"Lilith," Dean says, his voice dangerous.

"I'm sure they're treating him like the Father himself on the off-chance that he'll tell them everything," Lilith says. "Isn't that nice?"

"You shut your mouth, Lilith," Dean snarls.

"Or what?" Lilith retorts. "Don't think for a second that I've forgotten _your_ debt to us. Or maybe you'd like to visit Hell again?"

Castiel sees Dean's fists clench and knows that in the next second, he will erupt into violence. Castiel moves without thinking—his arms wrap around Dean's shoulders and pull him backwards, preventing him from lunging at Lilith. With the last of his strength, he pushes Dean into his chair and puts his hands on Dean's shoulders. "Don't move," Castiel growls into his ear.

There's silence from the room behind them. Dean stares up at him, his chest heaving up and down. "Get your hands off me," Dean says very quietly, not looking away.

Castiel blinks and lets go, his hands falling away. He stares at Dean for a moment, feeling—wait. No. Not feeling; angels don't feel. But he _is_ puzzled, his equilibrium thrown out of balance by his own actions. He swallows hard and forces himself to keep his face blank, refusing to acknowledge it.

"Well," Harvelle says after a moment. "We'll do this the civilized way, then. Demons, keep out of this. Those in favor of tossing the angel to the demons, raise your hands."

Castiel doesn't allow himself to turn around and count the hands. It makes no difference either way, _should_ make no difference either way. "And those against?" Harvelle asks from behind him. There's a pregnant pause, and then Harvelle announces, "Five against two. Sorry, Lilith, you and your friends are going to have to go without on this one. So, now that we've cleared this issue up, can we move on? We've got an hour left and we've barely touched the agenda."

"Is he going to stay here?" Dean asks, his voice harsh.

Castiel can feel Harvelle's glance as it sweeps over them. There's a moment of hesitation before she says, "No. No, I don't think so. Jo, can you take him back to his room, please?"

"Mom!" Jo protests, but it's swiftly cut off. Jo makes a few more grumbling sounds, but Castiel feels a hand latch onto his shoulder and knows that it's hers. "Come on," Jo said. "Let's go."

Castiel allows himself to be pulled along without protest, and they make the walk back to his room in silence. "Well," Jo says as she presses the numbers on the keypad lock to his door. She does a poor job of shielding, and Castiel tracks the numbers automatically: four six nine two. "I guess you'll have to stay here for now. Don't try to go anywhere, okay?" She pauses. Castiel ignores her as he walks unsteadily to the bed, forcing himself not to show weakness as he sits down slowly. "Do you want food? I could bring something from the cafeteria."

He stares back at her. He's thirsty and hungry, but he'll never show weakness here. Jo bites her lip but refuses to back down. "Fine," she says. "I'll leave you here, then."

The door swishes closed. Castiel looks at the keypad on the inside and tries to calculate his odds of escaping. He's performed enough raids on their clandestine meetings to know how long each supply run will last, and when they need to restock. He needs to learn a little more about the layout, but if he can do a rough map of the truck routes he can find his way back to Zion and return to the Nest of Peace. Well, he'll have to find his wings first to fly out, so that's another complication. But when he gets back, he'll tell the Nest of Justice what he knows, and then—

Well. Then he'll receive the Father's benediction. Of course. He would expect nothing else.

((()))

He falls into a fitful sleep despite his intentions to stay alert and awake. The next time he wakes up, Gabriel's sitting in the room next to him, humming tunelessly under his breath. "Morning, sleeping beauty!" Gabriel says as Castiel wakes up. "Sleep well?"

Castiel closes his eyes, determined not to answer. Gabriel doesn't seem to mind. "Cafeteria's finest," he says, pushing a tray filled with 'food' under his nose. "Vegetable mush and soup. Still, when you're fighting a war you can't afford to get fancy. Mush?"

His throat is as dry as sandpaper, but Castiel turns his head away. Gabriel sighs and reaches across the table, pouring a glass of water. "Angels," he mutters. "Little brother, you're an idiot, sad to say. At least drink some water before you collapse."

Castiel wavers as Gabriel thrusts a glass of water under his nose. Slowly, promising himself that he won't yield otherwise, Castiel takes a few swallows from the glass, and a few more, until he ends up drinking it all. "There you go," Gabriel says. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Castiel says nothing.

"I remember that look," Gabriel says as he watches Castiel. "I used to have it too, believe it or not, till I started ditching Grace. But it was easier for me, since I wanted to get out of the hellhole of the Host anyway." The corners of his mouth curl up. "Trust me, Falling was a piece of cake. It's what comes after that sucks. Which reminds me…"

Gabriel stands up and starts pulling open the drawers of the bedstand. Castiel watches him, silent and wary, as Gabriel pulls out a leatherbound volume. "Here we go!" Gabriel says. "Initiation. Ta-da."

He flips the pages to reveal a page covered with brown spots surrounded by yellow irregular ovals, with lines of green extending from the bottom. Castiel stares down at them, uncomprehending, before glancing back up at Gabriel's face. "No?" Gabriel says, frowning. "Sunflowers aren't doing anything for you? Huh. They did wonders for Anna, let me tell you." He flips through the pages again. "How's this?" He points at a page covered with blue circular waves of varying shades and sporadic yellow dots. "_Starry Night_. Apparently, it was painted by this guy who chopped off his own ear. Could've given Croats a run for their money, although I've seen a particularly psycho case gnaw her own arm off. Anyway, it's a classic. You like?"

"What do you want?" Castiel says, pushing the book away.

Gabriel's eyebrows rise. "Okay, obviously not. Paintings suck anyway," he says, closing the book and putting it aside. "Let's try something more—"

"What do you _want_?" Castiel interrupts as he pushes himself to a sitting position. There's a tight knot underneath his breastbone: he doesn't like it, but at the same time some primal part of himself welcomes it as it gives him strength. "You betrayed the Father; isn't that enough without turning this into some sort of mockery?"

Gabriel pauses. "Get your head out of your ass, Castiel," he says, his voice carrying a tone that Castiel can't identify. It's strangely light and absolutely foreign. "Sorry to break it to you, but the Father's an asshole. I ran the Nest of Omniscience before I Fell. I know a hell lot more than you do even though I've Fallen for years. Don't preach to me, please, it makes you look stupid."

He waggles his eyebrows at Castiel. Castiel stares back, fighting down the strange flush that's sweeping across his face. "But!" Gabriel says. "I _will_ admit that it's been a while since I've done this whole initiation gig. I mean, yeah, in theory you know that everyone's unique, but it's just so much _easier_ when they break down at something pretty and, I don't know, see the light or whatever. Sure the flowers don't do anything for you? No?" He closes the book with a loud clap and puts it aside. "Well, the psychologists say that sound's another popular option. Your precious Winchester went spastic over rock sound. It was kind of sad, actually, they put the sound player on and—"

"He's not my Winchester," Castiel says, his voice flat and low. He pushes himself into a sitting position. "Stop this, Gabriel."

"Oh, so it's Gabriel now, huh?" the former archangel says, his lips still curved up in that infuriating expression—a smile, Castiel thinks. He's smiling, and Castiel can feel the knot flaring in his stomach. "Little brother, I'm honored."

"I am not your brother," Castiel says tersely, throwing the covers off. Gabriel raises an eyebrow and stands up, his palms held up by his sides. "You turned your back on Him; you voluntarily threw away your Grace. We have _nothing_ in common."

"Don't we?" Gabriel says, and his voice is suddenly serious, the smile gone from his face. "I wouldn't jump to that conclusion so quickly." He narrowed his eyes. "You're no longer part of the Host, Castiel, and you might as well accept that. If the Father cared so much about you, don't you think that He would've saved you already? Instead, He tosses you aside like so much filth, left here to rot with the rest of us—"

The knot's burning now, and Castiel is shaken by the intensity. He wants to destroy Gabriel, smite him for the blasphemy. It's not the logical decision and it would achieve nothing, but it would be so _satisfying_ and—

_And it would play right into Gabriel's hands._

The realization washes over Castiel like a cool rain of Grace. He sucks in a breath as his body relaxes, the knot of fire doused. Gabriel's trying to disturb him, deliberately provoke him into Falling. "It's not going to work," Castiel says, calm once more. "You waste your time, renegade."

Gabriel purses his lips. "Huh. Thought I had something going there. Guess I'm just going to have to try harder." The smile's back, but Castiel can see the hard lines around his eyes. "Don't worry, I'll figure it out."

Castiel doesn't waste his breath on replying. Gabriel watches him for a moment more, tapping his fingers against the table as time trickles by. "Well. Paintings didn't work. Pissing you off didn't work. I have to congratulate the Nest of Peace, actually; kudos to their brainwashing techniques."

Don't answer, Castiel reminds himself. He's trying to corrupt you. Don't let him win.

"Huh. I've got an idea," Gabriel says, getting up from his chair. Castiel refuses to follow as Gabriel goes to the door and keys it open. Gabriel looks back at him, the smile on his face deceptively bright. "Don't make me drag you, Castiel."

Logic dictates that he can't win a physical fight, not now. Still, Castiel vows as he gets up from the bed, he's not going to let Gabriel take his soul. Not now, not ever.

Gabriel pushes the door open and walks out after Castiel. The corridors are dimly lit and almost deserted. "Dawn'll be coming soon," Gabriel says by way of explanation. "You've got perfect timing. Although, if you also had the soul of a romantic, it would make this so much easier. You know, I always said…"

Castiel tunes out his patter, focusing on putting one step in front of the other. Despite the fact that he's just slept for what feels like days, the damnable weakness is still there, making every step a challenge. He keeps his eyes on the floor, one hand surreptitiously brushing the wall for balance.

Gabriel pushes open yet another door, and Castiel looks up at the sudden breeze. "Technically, I shouldn't be doing this," Gabriel says with a shrug. "But, you know what they say about rules." He pauses. "Or you might as well learn, anyway."

Castiel peers through the doorway. It leads outside to a narrow twisting alley, but at least it's out of the underground compound. "I could run," he says, half-warning and half-speculation.

"You can," Gabriel says, "but you won't get far. First off, I'll take you down. It'll be easy, trust me. Second, even if you do get away from me, you'll never make it out. Welcome to Oldtown. The demons rule here for a reason, little brother."

Castiel looks at him. Gabriel meets his gaze squarely, no trace of smile lingering. "Don't try it," Gabriel says firmly.

Castiel doesn't say anything. Gabriel grips his arm firmly and pulls him forward, leading him through the maze of streets. Castiel doesn't actually see anyone as they make their way through the streets, but he can feel people watching them from the shadows. Oldtown is the blind spot of the Nest of Omniscience, and in these alleys, he can see why.

Looking up at the sky, he can see that the dark black is beginning to be punctuated by streaks of orange as the sun rises. How long exactly has he been asleep? More to the point, how long has he been away from the Host? They'll have replaced him as squad leader by the first three days or so: Uriel, most likely, would take his place. But wait, Uriel's dead…well, no matter. They'll find someone. One week later, and it's as if he was never there.

Castiel grits his teeth as his stomach does that peculiar twisting thing again. It's efficient, he reminds himself, but the sensation doesn't stop. No, he thinks, bearing down hard on it. It's not his place to defy the will of the Host, and he won't start doubting even though he's Graceless.

He keeps close to Gabriel as they move through the streets. The renegade leads the way with a strange determination that Castiel doesn't care to question. They emerge from yet another twisty alley to reach a concrete junkyard, filled with structures of scrap metal. "Ah ha," Gabriel says. "This might be a bit tricky. Think you can manage it?"

Castiel folds his hands behind his back, determined not to answer. Gabriel shrugs, but he begins climbing the tallest tower of metal with quick, graceful movements. "Well, come on, then," Gabriel calls once he reaches a platform about ten feet up. "You coming, or do I have to drag you up here?"

Climbing is difficult, and more than once or twice Castiel has to stop and rest. With his wings, he'd be able to soar over this without a second thought, but now he's grounded like some human. _Filthy mud monkeys,_ Uriel's voice echoes in his mind.

"You okay?" Gabriel says as Castiel levers himself up to sit next to him. "Jeesh, you look wiped."

Castiel folds his hands in his lap and stares at him. "Why am I here?"

Gabriel shrugs and spreads his hands expansively. "Isn't it obvious? Look, it's the best view in all of Oldtown." He points to the east, where the sun is rising. "Look."

Castiel looks. The sun is rising; a mass of hot, glowing gas is illuminating the world. He glances at it and then back at Gabriel's face. The renegade's eyes watch the color change with a strange intensity that Castiel doesn't comprehend. "Well?" he says after a moment.

"Hmm?" Gabriel asks, sounding distracted.

"What did you want me to see?"

Gabriel turns to him halfway, his eyebrows rising. "Want you to—Castiel. It's the sunrise! It's gorgeous! And you're just—" he shakes his head. "You're telling me that this does _nothing _for you?"

"Should it?"

Gabriel stares at him for a moment before shaking his head. "Wow," he says. "My hearty congratulations to the Nest of Peace."

Castiel doesn't reply. It doesn't matter what the renegade thinks of the Nest, he reminds himself. Gabriel's opinion is insignificant. His train of thought is derailed by a voice down on the ground. "Gabriel!" a hoarse male voice demands. "What the _fuck _are you doing?"

"Oh, look," Gabriel says. He looks away from Castiel and back to the ground, shaking his head. "The cavalry's arrived."

Dean Winchester stands at the bottom, his arms crossed. "What the _hell_, Gabriel?" he says. "Get down, you asshole!"

"Mother's calling," Gabriel says to Castiel. "Bit of a nice change from Father, though, don't you think?"

"Go fuck yourself," Dean snaps. "Get down, you asshole! Jo's got the whole complex looking for you two idiots. Dammit, Gabriel, was this your idea?"

"Don't get snappy at me, Dean-o," Gabriel says as they make their way back down. "I was trying to initiate him, which, by the way, is a lot more than you ever did, you know."

"And you can't initiate from inside the compound?" Dean says, glaring at Gabriel. "We have psychologists for a reason, you idiot."

"He didn't react at the sunrise," Gabriel says. Dean looks unimpressed.

"Not everyone's a tree-hugger like you are. Everyone's trigger is different, you know that," Dean says. He looks around at the concrete park. "I'm surprised you made it out here without getting ambushed. Oldtown doesn't like angels."

"They don't like anybody," Gabriel says dismissively.

Dean throws him a cursory glance before returning to scanning the park. "They don't like you because you're a dick, Gabriel. And frankly, I'm not going to argue with them there. Now come on, let's get back to the compound."

Dean leads the way, setting a quick pace that has Castiel half-leaning on Gabriel for support. He exaggerates the effect as much as he dares; too much and Gabriel will know that he's deceiving them. His eyes scan their surroundings, absorbing every bit of information he can: even if they lock him in his rooms again, he has the keycode to his door. He has a route out of here. He briefly considers running now, but he's in a weakened state and although he's reasonably certain that he could take Dean down, there's Gabriel to consider.

He's not going to run now, but he will soon, he promises himself. As soon as he finds his wings. The Host has awaited him for sixteen days, and it's not as if his information is particularly time-sensitive. His squad won't need his presence either, as they'll have replaced his position within seven days of his disappearance.

Castiel stumbles as his heartbeat skips at the thought. Dean turns to look back at him briefly while Gabriel's hand tightens on his shoulder, and Castiel doesn't pull away from the contact. He tells himself that next time, he'll run. The Father needs him, yes, but…just not right now.

((()))

_1.4: Dean_

Gabriel's waiting for him when Dean arrives at Castiel's door bearing a tray of cafeteria's finest. Dean curses to himself and tries to shoulder Gabriel out of the way and key in the numbers one-handed. "Look, I know you're trying to be all manly and ignore me, but can I just say that it's so _sweet_ how you're feeding him personally?"

"Fuck off," Dean says, brushing him aside.

"Since when did you start babysitting duties? Aren't you supposed to be out with Rufus or something?" Gabriel says, leaning nonchalantly against the doorway.

"Aren't you supposed to be lounging around like a useless ingrate?" Dean retorts.

"Nice word of the use ingrate. I didn't know that word was in your dictionary to begin with."

"Go to hell," Dean snarls as he pushes past Gabriel into Castiel's room. He kicks the door shut behind him with a satisfying bang. As he slaps the tray down onto the table, he can feel Castiel's eyes on him, watchful and inquisitive. "Guy's a pain in my ass," Dean says to him. "Is it just him, or do all angels not know when to fucking shut up already?"

Castiel doesn't say anything, and Dean sighs, a little ruefully. Well, there's his answer, then. He pushes the tray over to Castiel and sits down in a chair opposite the bed. "I don't know why I'm here," he says as the silence stretches on. "There's stuff I should be doing. And much as I hate to admit it, Gabriel's right. I made Rufus take my place on the patrol." He closes his eyes and leans back, thumping his head lightly against the back of the chair. "Normally, Ellen would yell my sorry ass off, but she's being all thoughtful and leaving me alone. They all are. On one hand, it's fucking annoying, but on the other hand, I don't give a shit."

Silence greets this monologue. Dean opens one eye to check on Castiel's reaction. Castiel tilts his head, bright blue eyes watching Dean in a way that's slightly unnerving. Dean's had more than enough contacts with angels since then to recognize the sharp, sweeping gaze that carefully analyzes him from tip to toe.

"So," Dean says quietly as Castiel's eyes finish their inspection and flick back up to meet his. "Ready to talk about Anna?"

It's a hunch, but he somehow manages to hit perhaps the only chink in Castiel's armor. The corners of Castiel's eyes crinkle very slightly, but he might as well have gasped out loud. Dean feels his heart leap in his chest; he takes the opportunity and goes for it. "When angels land on our getaway car, generally either the angel or the car dies. Or, you know, the people in the car," Dean says, keeping his voice light and conversational. "But somehow both made it through, and the only reason you're not dead is because Anna asked me not to. We've killed other angels before, so it's not really a question of old sibling sentiment. You knew her, didn't you? Personally."

Castiel's still enough that he might be a statue. He blinks, the sweep of his lashes the only movement he makes.

Dean stares at him for a moment and feels his hands clench into fists. Damn the angels. How can he just _sit_ there, unmovable and emotionless, when Dean's lost everything? "What do they do to angels who leave the Host?" he says, anger turning him vicious. "Especially one who betrayed them. What're they doing to Anna, huh? We've had to abandon our old exits and fortify our defenses, because there's no way that the Nest of Love is going to let her sit quietly in prison when they can torture her. You soulless pieces of shit, you'll rip out a child's intestines and feel nothing, won't you? That's what they're doing to Anna, except even worse, because they're not going to let her die that easy. And you're okay with that?"

Dean finds that he's shouting, pushing the chair back and letting it fall to the ground with a sharp clatter. Anger sweeps through him, hard and dark, and for a moment Dean wants to give in to it. He'll take Lilith back up on her offer, and they'll see just how long an angel can stay silent. He can almost feel the hard steel of the razor under his palm, the cool edge against his wrist that promises pain and pleasure all at once, Alistair's arm wrapping around him as the demon whispers into his ear—

Dean jerks himself up and away from the bed, stumbling back against the wall. He shakes his head frantically to get the vision out of his head, to get Alistair's voice out of his mind. The demon's hiss haunts his dreams often enough, but that doesn't mean that he has to give into it while awake.

He's better than that. He _hopes_ that he's better than that.

There's a slight rustle from the bed. Dean glances at Castiel and sees that the angel's shifted position—not a lot, just into a more alert position on the bed. "What?" Dean snaps. "I didn't torture your sorry ass, but that's the end of it, all right? I'm not going to stoop to your level. I'm not."

He doesn't know quite who he's trying to convince, Castiel or himself. As the silence stretches on, Dean finds the anger draining out of him, leaving nothing but weariness in its place. "Look," he says finally, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I don't know if you knew Anna as an angel. I guess it doesn't matter, since we'll never see her again. Or Sam." He clenches his teeth as the still-raw wave of pain washes over him.

"Your brother," Castiel says abruptly, looking up. Dean glances at him, surprised. "He uses Croat?"

"You're breaking radio silence to ask me that?" Castiel stares back at him impassively, and Dean sighs. "Yeah, he uses Croat. I'm trying to get him off it, because honestly, it's a fucking addiction sold by the _demons_. Since when have the demons ever had our best interests at heart? Not to mention that one day he's going to overdose and die by it." Dean presses his lips together in a hard, thin line. "I mean, if the Nest doesn't kill him first, I guess. Which they probably will."

"You didn't give it to me during the detox."

"I thought you didn't want it," Dean says, raising an eyebrow.

"Exactly why you should have administered it."

Dean looks at him, trying to analyze his posture for clues. "Jo wanted to give you the Croat because it helps with Grace detox," Dean says slowly. "Not because she's sadistic, Castiel. We're not like that." Well. He hopes that he's not like that.

Castiel's silent for a long moment. "You should send me back," he says finally, with a quiet solemnity that sends chills down Dean's spine. Castiel's shoulders slump very slightly, enough that he doesn't seem hostile anymore, just…tired. "I don't belong here."

"Neither does anybody," Dean says. He rights the fallen chair and pulls it up to Castiel's bed, keeping a close eye on the angel as he does it. "Hasn't stopped us so far."

Castiel's steady gaze falters. Skips away, aimlessly trailing up to the ceiling. Dean feels the window closing, and he feels himself get strangely desperate to open it back up. "Look," Dean says. "It gets better. Really. Most people who come here are human, but even angels find it much easier after initiation. Okay, the only angel besides Gabriel here is—was—_is_ Anna, but she got along great with everyone. It sucks now, but…it'll get better."

Not a ringing endorsement of the rebellion, but hey, Dean doesn't work in propaganda for a reason. Castiel doesn't seem convinced as his eyes continue to track the ceiling. Dean looks up at it just to check that nothing's there.

"Anael was a traitor," Castiel says. The words would normally be enough to get Dean angry again, but there's something about Castiel's flat tone of voice that stops him. "As is Gabriel. They betrayed the Father, and they deserve their fates."

"If you go back," Dean says slowly, "they'll kill you. Won't they?" He takes the silence as confirmation. "They won't care that you were loyal, Castiel. They'll kill you anyway because that's what the Host does. The Father left you a long time before you left Him, Castiel."

"Treason," Castiel says softly.

"Truth," Dean replies, just as soft.

Castiel's hands twitch slightly, and Dean tenses. The moment stretches on, and Dean knows that something's tipping within the angel. Crap, he thinks a bit ruefully as he waits for the breakdown—tears, shouting, the whole nine yards. One of the last things he wants to do is to get caught pants-down in an angelic initiation. He doesn't do this wishy-washy psychology crap for a reason—

Or maybe not.

Castiel relaxes suddenly, some inner decision made. His face smoothes over, the tension vanishing from his eyes. He looks indifferent, even a bit bored. The stone angel's back.

Dean feels something clench inside of him with something peculiarly close to disappointment. _Damn it._ Be careful what you wish for and all that.

Well, maybe it's for the best, he thinks, tamping down the wave of frustration. Anyway, he isn't paid enough to delve into angel psyche without some heavy machinery. Change the subject, Dean, talk about something else… "So, uh," he says less-than-brilliantly as the silence stretches on. "Initiation. Did Gabriel try that out on you yet?"

No response. "Mine was music," Dean says, more to fill the rather unnerving silence than anything else. "Course, I was a kid then, so I guess it was less…you know, traumatic than an adult's and everything. The detox wasn't half as bad, either, although I did have to deal with the detox from the Croat they gave me to ride out the Grace detox." He snorts, vaguely amused by the contradiction. "Take it from me, man: drugs fucking suck, no matter who they come from."

From the bed: nothing. The soft rise and fall of Castiel's chest as he breathes is his only movement.

Dean rubs his hands through his hair. "You know, it's fine if you want to talk," he says after a moment. "No one's going to bitch at you. I mean, Sam's always been better with the wishy-washy stuff, but, uh—" he falters. "I don't bite," he finishes lamely.

This doesn't seem very reassuring, judging by the flat silence that stretches on. Castiel's face has closed off once more, wiped free of any movement or expression. Dean might as well not be in the room, and Castiel's eyes look straight through him.

Honestly, Dean can't even summon up the energy to be angry anymore.

((()))

_1.5: Castiel_

Late at night, he thinks about Anael.

She was a good leader. He served for years in her squad, promoted to leader only when she left—no, when she Fell. When she betrayed them. Obviously, she deserves to be Loved for that, but Castiel can't help but think that—

No. _No. _He can't. He won't. He's not like them; he's an _angel_, and that carries a greater burden of responsibility than the rest of humanity.

He turns his mind to other topics. Judging by his trip with Gabriel that day, the complex is seated deep in the heart of Oldtown, the slums that the angels have condemned. He doesn't know the specifics about the heart of Oldtown, and judging from the gaps in his knowledge, it's perfectly possible that the slums may host an entire city. The demons have their headquarters situated here as well, controlling the depraved human population with their propaganda and lies. Chaos threatens to overrun Oldtown at any moment, and the Republic waits for those who would repent with open arms.

But even if he goes back, the Republic won't welcome him. His place in the Host is gone. His name is erased from the Nest of Memory. Another will have taken his role, and few outside of his squad will note his absence, and even the others will have short memories. That's the way the Host works—efficient and emotionless, with no place for the Fallen. Castiel closes his eyes as a sudden wave of nausea rises up at the thought. It'll be as if he was never there to begin with. Dean and Gabriel were right, what exactly is he holding onto for anyway?

_Because he hasn't Fallen._ Castiel holds onto this thought, repeating it in his mind over and over again in a desperate mantra. He's served for his entire life. He _knows_ that the humans lie as easily as they breathe, and Gabriel, as a renegade, no doubt Fell to their temptations long ago. Don't doubt, he tells himself. Have faith, don't ask questions, just do as you're told. You're an angel; who are _you_ to question the will of the Father?

He turns over in the bed restlessly, his hands clenching at the covers in their search for an anchor to hold.

((()))

Castiel trails behind as Gabriel ushers him through the cafeteria line, noting only detachedly the way that Dean scowls when Gabriel slides into the seat next to him with a smile that's too big to be real. Castiel sits down next to Gabriel and lets the hum of the cafeteria surround him. He closes his eyes; his one refuge from the world and its paradoxes. He doesn't want to observe the rebels at work or to analyze the way that Gabriel and Dean are glaring at each other. He doesn't want to _want_ at all, and yet he wants Grace so badly that it hurts. He wants to be back in the Host, with nothing to worry about so long as he obeys.

He doesn't notice it at first when Ellen Harvelle enters the cafeteria, but he does open his eyes when she sits down across the table from him, next to Dean. "Am I interrupting something?" she says, looking from Gabriel to Dean and back. "Your face is going to get stuck if you keep glaring that way, you know."

"Ellen," is Dean's growled reply. Ellen's warning notwithstanding, he's still glaring daggers at Gabriel as he jabs his fork back into a pile of green mush.

"Ellen, you look more gorgeous every day," Gabriel says. His lips curve into an even wider smile as he tilts his head back to look at her. "What can I do for you?"

"Can it, Gabriel," Ellen says. She looks at Castiel briefly before reaching into her coat and pulling out a small square box. "Thought you boys might be interested in seeing this."

"We're watching Republic Network now?" Dean says, his eyebrows raising. "What the hell are we going to learn from Heaven's propaganda?"

Ellen hesitates. "Maybe you should leave him out of it," she says, gesturing at Castiel. "Why don't you come with me to SR ,and I'll show you there?"

"Oh, come on," Gabriel says. "He practically grew up on this stuff. Trust me, the Nest of Peace is the Nest of Enlightenment's biggest fan. It'll be like a letter from home. You know, if angels ever wrote letters."

Ellen still looks uncertain, but Gabriel reaches over and pulls the monitor closer so that all four of them can see it. Ellen pauses one moment more before finally giving in and pressing some buttons on the flat black surface. The dark screen jumps to life: blurry at first, but slowly clearing up to reveal—

"Anna," Dean breathes. Castiel focuses his gaze on the monitor, a strange sensation twisting the base of his spine as he looks at his former squad leader. She doesn't look much different from his memories of her. Well, a few things are different: her hair is out of its former military cut and falls to her shoulders. She's not wearing the squad uniform, either, she's wearing a dirty gray tunic that has clearly seen better days. There are two angels on either side of her, gripping her arms and pulling her forward.

Anael's movements are jerky and slow, and even with the poor quality image, Castiel can pick out signs of wounds underneath her garments. The two angels on either side don't stop or slow, and their movements are brusque as they chain her to a large metal cross, fending off her struggles effortlessly. Her breath comes in short, fast pants. Castiel finds himself breathing in tandem with her, the sensation in his spine growing with a frightening intensity.

He's seen this before. He knows how this will end.

A voice emanates from the speakers. "Anael, you have been judged and found wanting. You have been convicted of treason against the Father and the Republic of Heaven, and for your sins, you are sentenced to a cleansing by fire. May the flames burn away the darkness within you, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul."

The camera lingers on Anael's profile as the two angels step off the platform. White shows around her eyes as she pulls uselessly against the restraints. Her eyes, seeking and wild, look at something right behind the camera—Castiel knows from experience that she's looking at an image of the Father in His glory, omniscient and ever-present. "Go to Hell, you bastard," Anael spits. "Take your mercy and shove it up your ass."

And then—

_then—_

—the fire begins.

Anael's screaming, her head thrown back in agony as she writhes against her bonds. It's surprisingly loud, though, and it takes Castiel a moment to realize that he's screaming as well. Something burns at his stomach, wanting out, _out, _OUT, clawing its way up his spine and into every fiber of his body. The screen falls to the floor, and Castiel attacks it again and again as if the actions can undo the images on the screen.

Strong arms wrap around his chest and pull him back; Castiel fights them, thrashing against them as if they were Anael's chains. He's not nearly as strong as he used to be, but he's a trained angel, weakened or not. Castiel slams an elbow into his attacker's solar plexus and bursts free, only to be stopped as another arm wraps around his shoulders, holding him tight. He rages, unable to form more coherent words around the rawness in his throat.

"Castiel!"

He wants. He's never wanted before, but the sheer intensity of desire is raging through him now, and he can't stop it now that it's out. He wants to kill, wants to rip apart, wants to destroy those who'd dared to lay a finger on Anael and all those who stop him from trying. As if sensing his intentions, the weight on him grows; now there are two pairs of arms, three, four, all conspiring to hold him down. Castiel fights them the best he can—Anael needs him, he can save her, he can revenge her if only they'd let him go. Despite his best efforts, the restraints remain, and now he can feel the fire burning him as well, wrapping around him with a greedy appetite.

"_Castiel!_"

Dean's face is in front of his, forming words that he can't hear over the roaring in his ears. Castiel thrashes against the hold, fighting to break free. His movements are growing slower, though, despite his best efforts to stay strong. No, no, something's wrong. He whips his head around to see a hypothermic needle sticking out of his sleeve. They've drugged him, they've killed Anael, the liars, the traitors, and for that, he'll _kill them_—

((()))

_2.1: Dean_

Even in his drugged sleep, the corner of Castiel's mouth twitches downward into the beginnings of a pained frown. Dean looks around furtively to make sure that no one's in the room before he reaches out with a thumb, lightly smoothing over the crease. Castiel's skin is surprisingly soft: not that Dean thinks that angels are made out of stone or anything, but it's an odd contrast to the cold exterior Castiel so often presents.

"How's he doing?"

Dean jerks his hand back and turns around to look at the visitor. Gabriel's standing in the doorway, the slight wrinkle between his eyebrows belying the nonchalance in his voice. "Still alive," Dean says curtly.

"Good to know," the former archangel says, coming over to the bed. Gabriel sits down carefully at the other side of the bed, running a hand through his hair as he lets out a long breath. "Well, as we say in angelville, the devil's out of the box now. Initiation countdown. Did _you_ know it was going to be that violent?"

Dean shrugs, but he rubs a hand over his sternum. He's going to have a nice big bruise there tomorrow, and his arms already ache from his earlier attempts at trying to hold Castiel back.

"Eh. Mine wasn't. Well, mine was fucking awesome, actually. Then again, I _wanted_ to be initiated. Couldn't wait to do the whole emotion gig."

"Really?" Dean says, startled out of his sullen silence. "How'd you do that? I mean, you were at the top of the angel hierarchy, right? Stands to reason that you'd be the most loyal."

Gabriel shrugs. "I ran the Nest of Omniscience—spying, basically. Surveillance. Anyway, you spend all that time watching, you're bound to get curious sooner or later, no matter how efficiently Grace works. So one day by, uh, not so accident accident, I stopped taking the Grace and that was that." He looks at Dean with a wry smile. "Then I ran away from the Host and met you charming people, took up the flag against my dear old brothers, championed the cause of humanity, very noble, etcetera."

"Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh' doesn't even begin to cover it, believe me,' Gabriel says. "Still, at least I get candy. Want one?" He holds out an obscenely red lollipop to Dean. Dean waves it off. "Suit yourself. That's my last cherry one, by the way. I only have a couple grape ones left, and then I'm going to have to try the lemon ones. I hate the lemon ones."

"Candy is a restricted item," Dean reminds him half-heartedly as he unwraps it. He's too fucking tired to be angry at this point.

"Oooh, you going to lock me up, big bad Dean?" Gabriel says, leaning back as he pops the candy into his mouth. "I'm terrified. You can't tell, but I'm shaking in my shoes right now."

"You should be," Dean mutters. "Don't tell me you don't know what happened in Hell."

There's silence from the other side of the bed. Dean drops his gaze to look at Castiel, acutely aware of Gabriel's eyes on him. _Damn._ What made him say that? First rule of Hell: you do not talk about Hell. Ever. Doubly so if your name is Dean Winchester.

On the bed, Castiel stirs and moans slightly, his eyelashes fluttering. Dean leans forward, watching. He got another hypo from Ellen earlier in case Castiel flips out again, but this appears to be a false alarm. Castiel shifts position on the bed before settling down again with a sigh, his face pressing into the pillow. One hand threatens to dangle over the edge of the bed, and Dean pushes it back into place.

"He should be sleeping naturally now," Dean says quickly as Gabriel inhales, no doubt preparing to speak. "The hypo's only supposed to work for about three hours."

"With angel metabolism? Please. Two hours, max. Kid went off to la-la land ages ago."

"Yeah," Dean says, sagging with relief as Gabriel seems to have accepted the change of subject. "Maybe you should go tell Ellen? Tell her everything's going to be okay? I think I can wrap up things on this end."

"Yeah. Sure," Gabriel says. Dean waits, but Gabriel doesn't move.

"What?" Dean demands, turning around to look at him. "Look, Gabriel, forget I said anything about Hell. I shouldn't have brought it up, and anyway, I don't do uncomfortable conversations. Now scram."

"I've been to Hell myself, you know," Gabriel says, sounding mild. "Bit dirty for my taste."

"Shut up," Dean growls.

"Stayed there for two days and couldn't wait to leave. I managed to get out only through sheer charm, illicit bribes, and oh yeah, killing one or two demons who got in my way." Gabriel's voice is as light as if he's talking about the weather. "I have to tell you, angels pride themselves on being better than everyone else, but demons sure could give them a run for their money in the whole torturing department."

"Fuck you, Gabriel," Dean says, gripping the sheets in his hands to keep from taking a swing at Gabriel. There's silence from the other side of the room, long enough that Dean hopes that Gabriel's gotten the hint. Dean pointedly doesn't look up, keeping his eyes fixed on Castiel's face.

"A demon would've been positively thrilled at the chance to shred an angel to bits," Gabriel says at last. "Between you and me, I'm glad that the council decided against it. It's not often that I get one of my siblings down here, you know." He pauses, his voice softening. "You're not a demon, Dean, no matter what happened in Hell."

Dean swears to himself that if Gabriel says one more word, Dean will punch the shit out of him. Fortunately (or unfortunately), Gabriel moves to the door and opens it. There's the quiet beep as the door closes behind him and the lock reengages.

"Demons would've killed you just for being so annoying," Dean mutters to the absent Gabriel, rubbing his face with his palms. "Fucking angels." He looks at Castiel. "Why the hell is Gabriel so loud, anyway? Aren't you angels supposed to be a closed-mouth lot?"

Castiel, unsurprisingly, says nothing. Dean looks at him, faintly amused at his own idiocy. The guy's asleep; he's not going to say anything, moron.

He should leave. There are a million things he should be doing, and at the top of the list is Sam. Gabriel's said before that Sam probably won't get a public execution, but dying publicly is probably the least of Sam's problems. If they've sentenced Anna, there's reason to believe that they've sentenced Sam as well, and who knows what they've done to him. And then after Sam comes his job, which he knows he's been neglecting lately.

If only they could find the Nest of Love! Dean would raze the fucking thing to the ground and tap dance in the ashes. He might even break his no-torture vow, because if anyone deserves to be skinned alive, it's the bastards who run the Nest. But reality always serves to ruin Dean's dreams: with no intel, no information, not even whispers on the wind, there's nowhere for them to go.

And so, Dean stays.

((()))

Twelve hours later: a shower, some tasteless mush from the cafeteria, a short nap in his room. Oh, and apparently a murder attempt by Castiel.

"Really?" Dean says when Ellen brings him the news. "Well, at least someone finally managed to get Gabriel to shut up."

She gives him a wry look. "Gabriel can talk just fine. He's got a bunch of bruises and his ego's deflated a size or two, but he'll be fine. Castiel got hypoed again, but it should wear off in half an hour or so."

"He's not my buddy," Dean corrects automatically as he puts on his boots. The other boot is tucked under his bed, and it takes some fumbling to pull it out. "Why're you telling me this, Ellen?"

Ellen gives him a sharp look, and he winces. Jo and her mother both share an unnerving perceptiveness, except that Ellen doesn't bother to pussyfoot around it. "What're you planning to do with the angel, Dean?"

"Save his sorry ass, that's what. I thought we were _supposed _to initiate the Fallen," Dean retorts, returning her look squarely. "You know, bargain with the devils, fuck with the angels' heads, save the world while we're at it? Just doing my job here, Ellen."

Ellen doesn't fall for it. She crosses her arms and gives him The Look that always has Dean squirming uncomfortably. If Sam were here, maybe he'd be able to pull something off to distract her attention, but as the situation goes, Dean's stuck. "We're ninety percent sure that Sam's still in the Nest of Love," Ellen says bluntly. "Probably not the best thing to hear, but if Sam's still holding out, then he's still alive."

Dean grits his teeth at the familiar wave of pain at hearing Sam's name. He fishes out his boot and pulls it on with unnecessary force, not looking at Ellen. "Great," he says. "Totally useless, but great."

"Dean." Ellen sighs, running a hand through her hair. Dean feels guilty, but not enough to stop the inquisition. It's been almost a month since the fucking mess started, and there's still nothing on the Nest of Love. "These things take time," Ellen reminds him. "We're doing our best."

"Yeah, I know," Dean mutters. "Our best really sucks, Ellen."

"Are you going to take it out on Castiel's skin?"

Dean blinks at the non sequitur. Honestly, he wouldn't mind taking it out on Gabriel's skin, but he knows that there can only be one _him_ that Ellen's referring to. Damn, she's good. He looks up at her. The Look is still going on, full-force, with the added benefit of crossed arms. "Jo has a big mouth."

"Jo watches over the compound for me, and that includes making sure that all the soldiers can be trusted to do their jobs like humans," Ellen retorts. "We deal with the demons. We don't become them."

Dean rubs his forehead. "Ellen, I am _fine_," he says, enunciating each word clearly. As she continues to look unconvinced, he adds, "and if I'm not, I will be. In the near future."

Ellen's eyes soften, and Dean looks away. "We're doing our best, Dean."

"It's just that our best isn't good enough," Dean finishes wearily. He pulls on his other boot and stands up. "Look, I'm sorry about skiving off the patrol. I'll make it up. And tell Gabriel that…I don't know. Tell him that I'm dancing for joy because someone finally managed to shut him up."

Thankfully, Ellen doesn't push. "No love for our resident archangel?" she says in a deft change of subject. "Gabriel's going to cry with no one to hold his hand."

"He can eat his candy and think how lucky he is not to get his ass thrown in solitary," Dean retorted as he swung open the door. "We need to keep a closer eye on the resupply inventory, by the way."

"On it," Ellen says. She turns as if to go, and then looks back at him with a sharp eye. "You're taking Rufus' shift tonight, Dean. I can't let people who are fine skip on their jobs."

Dean nods, grateful that she's buying into the ruse. "You're amazing," he tells her, and she rolls her eyes and smacks him on the shoulder.

"Take care of yourself, Dean," she says, tipping him a nod before she walks away.

Dean watches her go before leaning against the wall, scrubbing his face with his palms. Yeah. Okay. He's a fucking _expert_ at taking care of himself.

He straightens up and checks his watch: he's got an hour before his shift starts. Just enough time to clean himself up before he goes back to his job.

((()))

Patrol's a four man job, taken by a regular group of hunters in shifts. As Dean heads into the armory, he exchanges nods with the usual suspects: Victor, who gives him a short nod as he passes by. Gwen, who barely looks up as she continues to clean her gun. Pamela smiles at him from her position by the lockers, but he can see that her eyes are rimmed with red. "You look like shit, Winchester," she says, but she doesn't sound that hot herself.

"Right back at you, Pamela," he says, opening his locker. Dean's tried to avoid knives ever since his vacation in Hell, and he chooses instead a double-barreled shotgun. He pulls it out and sits on the bench next to her. There's silence between them as neither of them can bring themselves to mess with the elephant in the room—Anna. Anna, and Sam.

"I saw the video," she says at last in a low voice. "She went out shouting insults at the dick in charge. I mean, as far as ways to go out are, that's a pretty decent one, I guess."

"Yeah," Dean says. It's not much, but it's all he can manage. He…damn it. He doesn't know quite how to feel about Anna, not like the devastating pit of emptiness that eats at him every time he thinks about Sam. Because when it comes to Anna, there was a Before Hell and an After Hell, and After Hell meant that they were barely talking to each other except when they absolutely had to.

Pamela rubs his arm and gives him a small smile, understanding. "I'm sorry about Sam," she says quietly.

Dean nods, accepting but unable to form words beyond that single action. "You miss her?" he says at last.

She raises an eyebrow. "Every fucking day," she says as if it were obvious, which he supposes it is. "You?"

"We should form a club," Dean mutters, not looking up at her.

"I'll bring the booze," she says, but her hand squeezes his shoulder in silent comfort.

Dean clears his throat and stands up, avoiding her gaze, because if he has to see that look in her eyes for too long he'll fucking break down, and breaking down is not a good thing when he's on patrol. "Let's move," he says brusquely. He flicks on his shortwave radio and clips it to his belt, slipping the earpiece on. He can't give a shit about it all now—not Sam, not Anna, and definitely not the fucking angel in the infirmary. "Chuck, what've we got?" he barks into the earpiece.

"Hi, Dean," Chuck says, but he sounds distracted. "I didn't think you'd be here today."

"Switched with Rufus. Long story. Where, how, why, what, who, and when can we gank some angels?"

"Uh, I'd be careful what I wish for if I were you," Chuck says. Dean can hear the clicking of keys in the background, and then Chuck adds, "A flock of the Host has been sighted in the skies and they're circling—oh. Um. Not good. Not good."

"Cut the theatrics, Chuck, and spit it out."

"Dean, they're right above the family compound in sector 4. ETA, four minutes."

"You all get that?" Dean asks the others. "Let's go be heroes."

Then they're running to get to the docking bay where the vehicles are. They pile into a grungy brown van that smells faintly like piss, but that's the least of their worries at the moment. Gwen drives, while Pamela mans the monitors and radar. Victor and Dean take up positions in the back, checking their weapons one last time. Killing an angel is a tricky business; it depends more on speed, skill, and pure dumb luck than superior weaponry. Still, grenades and explosives level the playing field quite a bit.

"Sector four, report," Pamela says, tuning the radio to their frequency. There's static for a moment, and then the sound of gunfire comes over the radio. Gwen drives faster, barreling through the notoriously narrow streets of Oldtown with reckless speed and sheer skill. "Shit. Sector four! Come in, this is sector two calling—"

"Two?" a voice shouts. There's a scream and some crashing in the background. "They caught us with our fucking pants down. We've sighted nine so far, but the damn things always travel in fours, so that's twelve at a guess. They're blasting their way through the doors—"

There's another enormous crash and a scream. The radio goes to static, blaring ominously through the van. Pamela shakes her head frantically and switches frequency to call Chuck. "We're going to need a whole lot more than four people," she says into the earpiece. "This isn't some standard flyover. Chuck, this is a full-blown raid."

"I can try and send the cavalry, but it'll take at least ten minutes," Chuck says. "Wait—sector three says that they can be there in eight."

"We're heading into sector two now," Gwen announces, and there's a screech of the tires as she veers to avoid a spray of gunfire. "Shit, apocalypse's come and all that. Fucking angels, going after the families."

Dean can see them now—four, five, six angels up in the air, their wings flashing against the sky. Cursing, he wrenches their machine gun up against the firing slit in the window and stabs down on the trigger grimly, spraying gunfire towards them. He doesn't hit any, but he manages to break up their formation, scattering them. There's the sharp patter on the roof as the angels return the favor, and Gwen just narrowly avoids driving into the wall.

"Angels to the right!" Pamela yells, and Victor swivels the artillery cannon towards the right window and fires blindly. The recoil rocks the van as fire explodes forward, filling the air with smoke that leaves them all coughing. Pamela waves it away and peers at the monitors. "Wow. Damn, Victor, good firing. You flamed one right in the face."

Dean glances at the right window: there's a fine mist of blood spattered all over it, which is deeply satisfying and disturbing all at once. "One down, eleven to go," he says.

"Smoke will buy us some time," Gwen says tersely. "Shit. Here come the masses."

The sound of screams rises from the other side of the smoke, and Dean can faintly see the shadows of the fleeing people coming closer towards them. "We'll never be able to drive through the crowds," Dean says. "Gwen, try to get us to the old pit station, and we'll go on foot from there. Chuck, ETA?"

"Seven minutes!" Chuck yells.

"We're going to need convo trucks to evacuate the noncombatants," Dean says into the earpiece as they veer through the streets. "We're going to try to hold them off long enough so the angels can't get to them—shit!"

There are three angels in the streets ahead of them, forming a barricade. Some of the fleeing humans manage to shove past them, but not many—the angels have opened their wings, preventing many from getting past, and they're shoving the refugees into a hovering zeppelin before they can get away. Dean swears again and holsters his gun: if he shoots here, he'll hit those who've managed to get past, and anyway the angels aren't above using humans as shields. "Victor, go snipe them from above. Gwen, get us to the fucking zeppelin!"

Victor dives out of the van and runs for the nearest building—while he can't snipe from the skies for fear of the angels, a third floor window will do just as well. Gwen revs the engines, a manic grin on her face. She sounds the horn as Dean strips out the belt of live ammo from the machine gun; he can't risk hitting the humans. The angels turn to look at her briefly; two of them continue to load the humans, while one turns towards them, wings flaring and catching the light.

They can't beat the angels in hand-to-hand combat, and Dean has no intention of trying. He slides in a belt of hypos into the machine gun and gives Pamela a nod when he's ready. Gwen blares the horn madly as she speeds up, aiming the van straight at the zeppelin. Pamela climbs up through the roof and throws a smoke grenade in the angel's direction. As the grenade flies through the air, Dean opens fire at the angels with the hypos, hoping to stun them with as few human casualties as possible.

The next instant, the van slams into the zeppelin, hard enough that Dean loses his grip on the machine gun and slams into the back van doors. Screams fill the air, high with panic and fear. Dean grits his teeth and forces himself to stay focused as he slides open the side van door and jumps out, landing heavily on the metal dock of the zeppelin. The terrified faces of those too old or too young to fight greet him, and for a moment Dean freezes at the sight of the crying, pleading faces. Fortunately, Pamela sweeps past him and takes control of the situation, ushering them out of the zeppelin through their makeshift door to safety. Dean stumbles to the main door, wincing as he wraps his hand around the emergency knife in his belt. This is no time to be squeamish of knives. He peers cautiously outwards, squinting through the smoke.

Two angels are down on the ground, along with a number of smaller bodies. Dean pushes the humans out of his thoughts and focuses on the fallen angels: one was hypo'd in the face, and while he can't see where the other one was hit, he's definitely out of the count. That leaves one angel unaccounted for. Dean glances briefly back at Pamela before sidling out of the zeppelin, knife held ready in his hand. He works his way along the side, every nerve in his body tingling as he searches for the third angel.

A flash of light cuts through the smoke, and pain explodes in his shoulder as wings slice through the air. He barely manages to keep his hold on the knife, but it's a moot point anyhow as the angel leaps up from behind him and slams him into the wall of the zeppelin. The gigantic steel wings flare and snap behind the angel's back, trying to slice him through. Dean writhes against the angel's grasp and kicks out blindly with his feet. It feels disturbingly weak, and the angel doesn't even flinch.

Dean's vision is going gray with lack of oxygen, and he's just about reconciled himself to the fact that the last thing he sees on this hellpit of an earth is some damned angel's face when the angel's grip suddenly goes slack. The great wings fall still and Dean wrenches free as the angel collapses onto the ground. Dean stares at the angel for a moment before turning him over to see the trail of blood leaking down the back of the neck. "Thanks, Victor," he murmurs wearily, sagging against the wall.

His reprieve is short-lived. Dean staggers to his feet as something explodes a few yards behind the zeppelin, followed by the sharp staccato of machine gun fire. Dean peers around the side of the zeppelin and grits his teeth as he sees the other two zeppelins in the air. They're raking gunfire in precise rows across the area, mowing down anyone and everyone who's in the open air. It's death both ways—the family compound is on fire, and the others, never in the best of repair, are following suit. Dean's stomach twists brutally at the sight.

"Dean!" Pamela shouts, and then she's next to him, sliding one arm under his bad shoulder and pulling him forward. "Don't just stand there—Chuck, we are in deep, deep shit, _where is the fucking backup?_"

Dean can't hear Chuck's reply and only belatedly realize that his earpiece is lying on the ground, but there's no time to retrieve it as Pam pulls him into the shelter of the zeppelin. About a dozen faces greet them, and Dean turns to look at Pam in confusion. "Didn't you send them out?" he demands, his voice hoarse and cracked.

"The angels have blocked the underground," Pamela says tersely, and Dean feels like he's falling with no end in sight, because those tunnels are the best-kept secret of every sector, and if the angels know how to find them, that means Sam and Anna have—were—they've been—

A sharp sting across his cheek brings him out of his spiraling thoughts. "Focus, Dean," Pamela says fiercely into his ear. "We're not done yet." She nods in the direction of the pilots' seats. "Chuck says they're tangled in the northwest zone, and they're trying to find a detour around the blockade, but it might take a few minutes."

"What about ground defenses?" Dean grunts, staggering over the piloting station and leaning heavily against the monitors for support. Pamela pushes him into the copilot's seat, leaning over to examine the monitors without answering. "Pamela, damn it, where are the ground cannons?"

"Torched," Pamela says briefly. She turns to look at Dean. "This isn't your average raid, Dean, this is a full-blown attack with intimate knowledge of our defenses and escape routes."

Dean swallows hard, the strength suddenly seeping out of his legs. There's only one way that the angels could've learned all that, and that's—Sam. _Sam, what did you do?_

"Stop whining, Winchester," Gwen says suddenly. Having reappeared from wherever she was, she slides into the pilot's seat and competently starts the warmup sequence. "All we can do is improvise. Now, we've got two zeppelins up in the sky blowing the shit out of sector four, with backup stuck pants-down half a mile over northwest. Meanwhile, there's this zeppelin, only a little bit dented and still ready to fly. You want to help or not?"

She turns to look at him, her eyes brisk and businesslike. Dean looks at her for what feels like an eternity before fighting down the numbness and pain and forcing himself to stand straight. "Let's go blow these sons of bitches out of the sky," Dean says roughly. Pamela gives him an approving nod and moves back to stand with the refugees, ushering them away from the hole where the car came through. "Do we still have communication with Victor?"

Gwen slides off her earpiece and hands it to him. Dean slides it on, noting detachedly the smear of blood across the side. "Think that those angels on the ground will notice we stole their ship?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

Gwen doesn't turn to look at him as the zeppelin prepares to take flight. "Don't think so, seeing as they're dead," she says curtly. "What do you have in mind?"

She's referring to the zeppelins, of course, and Dean turns his mind towards that. "Victor," he says into his earpiece. "Can you hear me, man?"

"Loud and clear," Victor says. "Where do you want me?"

"The van's pretty much trashed now, but the artillery cannon should still be working. Think you can get to it?"

"On my way," Victor says, and then Dean can hear the sharp sound of his breathing as he makes his way down the stairs. Dean turns to Gwen. "Gwen," he says, "can you fly this?"

"Oh yeah," she says, running her fingers covetously over the controls. "I can fly anything."

Dean smiles a little at this piece of bravado, but with Gwen, it's probably true—she has a frightening instinct for anything that moves. He turns to the back of the zeppelin, glancing at its weaponry. They smashed in a good bit of the right section and there's a giant gaping hole there, but the cannons on the left side should work just fine. "Hey, sector four," he says. "Any of you know how to shoot a gun?"

There are three cannons lining the side, as well as a number of machine guns. Pamela ignores the machine guns, as there's no way simple bullets can pierce the armor of a zeppelin, and assigns two pairs of the older children to the cannons, while she herself mans the third. "Okay," Dean breathes once they're in place. "The rest of you, try not to fall out, okay?"

There's a crackle in his earpiece, and then: "I'm at the van," Victor announces. Dean nods sharply at Gwen, and the zeppelin's engines vibrate as they prepare for liftoff. The other two zeppelins are still busy bombing the sector, but it won't take long before they notice that the humans have commandeered the third.

"Victor—" Dean hesitates for a second, knowing that what he's about to ask Victor is virtual suicide. "Can you get the cannon out of the van and into a building?" he asks, hoping for a miracle.

"Nope," Victor says. His voice is rough but calm. "But I can blow some sons of bitches out of the sky."

Dean closes his eyes, tasting iron in his mouth. "Okay," he says. "Okay. When I give the word, fire an arc from one to the other curving downwards. Then get out of there, Victor, you hear me? Get out of there as soon as you can and run for cover." Dean gives the interior of the zeppelin one more look, confirming that everything's in place. "Gwen, get us between them."

Gwen flips several switches on the control panel, and the zeppelin leaps upwards and forwards with frightening acceleration that pins Dean to the back of his seat. He grits his teeth as the bruises in his body make themselves known, but he forces himself to ignore them in favor of the zeppelins in the sky. One of the zeppelins breaks off shooting and pivots to angle its cannons at Dean's ship. There's a crackle from the control panel, and then a flat female voice comes out over the speakers: "Vessel nine-six-two, report confirmation code."

Gwen gives Dean a beautiful, truly insane smile as she spins the steering wheel, heading straight for the midway point between one zeppelin and the other. "Confirm this," Dean says to the angels. "Guys, _now_!"

Explosions rip through the air as the cannons fire. For a moment, there's nothing but heat and smoke and fire, and then Gwen pulls back the steering wheel and they're all going upwards. Dean's pinned flat into his seat by the sudden acceleration, and he absolutely cannot move even as something hits the back of the zeppelin hard enough to make the entire thing shudder, and then the screaming starts in the back. "Pamela!" Dean shouts hoarsely. "Pamela, talk to me!"

Whatever reply she might have made is drowned out as the zeppelin goes into a corkscrew dive that forces the words back down into his throat. He doesn't know how Gwen manages to fly the damn thing, but they're cutting through smoke and billowing flames at what feels like the speed of light, and then he can see the burning shell of an enemy zeppelin getting close and closer and then they hit and then—

The shock waves tear through the cabin, one after another until Dean thinks that his head's going to explode. There's a terrible sensation of falling through empty air with nothing to stop them, and then the biggest jolt yet. Pain stabs through Dean as the impact crashes through him. He blacks out for a moment, his vision going gray with the intensity of the waves, but his coughing awakes him. There's a fire going on in the engine, and he needs to get out, _now_.

"Gwen?" he rasps, flailing for the release to the seatbelt. "Gwen, you there?"

There's no answer. Dean fumbles and manages to release the clasp after what feels like an eternity, and he falls out of the seat with a jolt that nearly blacks him out again. Gwen's in the other seat, her head turned to one side. There's a trickle of blood oozing slowly down the visible side of her face. Dean feels blindly for the release on her seatbelt, tugging ineffectually at her in an attempt to wake her up. "Gwen!" he says, shaking her. "Gwen, wake up!"

His fingers stop as they touch hot metal. Dean squints through bleary eyes and sees a jagged metal spar protruding from her abdomen just below her sternum. He blinks rapidly a few times, unable to process what his eyes are seeing. There's surprisingly little blood around the base of the metal, and for a moment he thinks that it stopped right before it hit her. His hands are suddenly numb, but he manages to drag a hand up to the base of her neck, where he feels for a pulse.

There isn't one.

He sags to the floor, the strength going out of his body. She's dead. Gwen's dead. The hysteria building in his base of his stomach threatens to consume him as he inhales, deep and jerky. There's no room for panic, though, as his lungs instantly remind him why it's not a good idea to breathe in smoke. He doubles over, coughing, each cough sending spikes of pain through his body.

There's nothing you can do for her, soldier, his father's voice snaps into his ear, and oh, now he's hallucinating, but damn, it's a pretty lifelike hallucination if he does say so himself. She's dead, you're not, now get your ass up and move! John Winchester continues, and Dean automatically tries to obey the voice of command. He levers himself shakily to his knees and begins to crawl through the ruins of the zeppelin, keeping flat to the ground in an attempt to get what's left of the fresh air.

It seems like eternity before his questing hands hit gravel instead of steel mesh. Dean pulls himself forward into the open air, collapsing on the outer edge of the zeppelin. He's tempted to lie there and just die, but then the heat billows at his back. It's hot and oppressive, and he finds the strength to crawl forward just a few more feet before his limbs finally give up on him.

He lies against the grit and gravel, his vision filled with dizzying spots that he closes his eyes to get away from. Gwen's dead, Anna's dead, Sam's dead, Pamela's dead, Victor's dead, they're all dead. He feels a weak, hysterical laugh bubble out of his chest. _And now, Dean's dead. _That has a nice ring to it. It's alliterative or ironic or something; he was never that great at poetry and all that shit. And ooh, now he's rambling, isn't that interesting…

He's only vaguely aware of the hands that turn him around, wrap around his shoulders. "It's a human!" a voice shouts, but it sounds like whoever's speaking is talking underwater. Dean opens his eyes and tries to make out the face of his captor, but his vision isn't quite working and his body has given up.

He closes his eyes, too tired to care anymore. Hopefully, he'll die before the angels can get him back to the Nest. At the very least, he'll be able to see Sam again before the end.

((()))

_2.2: Ellen_

Twenty-six dead. Out of the two hundred and twelve hunters that went to the rescue of sector four, a hundred and eighty-eight returned. Ellen closes her eyes as the numbers on the report coolly dissect the day's events, turning human lives into emotionless statistics. So many deaths, and for what? Half of sector four has been retaken by the angels, while the other half lies in flames.

She takes a deep breath. Focus, she chastises herself. Mourn for the dead, but there is still the living to preserve. There are nearly seven hundred refugees from sector four, not to mention the injured that are coming in each day. "Some occupants are going to have to triple up," she says quietly, setting the report down on the table. "We don't have enough rooms for everyone. We're going to have to redirect a good number to the other sectors."

"Well, that's the problem, ain't it," Bobby grumbles. "The other sectors are all full as well, and more are coming in every day. Our men are trying to evacuate the survivors of zone three and four, but the other sectors have the same problem we do: not enough room and manpower."

Missouri nods. "Worse, not enough medical supplies," she says, her lovely voice grave. "We've got about sixty people on the injured list so far, and more are coming in every day. Smoke inhalation and burns are the worst culprits, and the thing about burns is that it's damn easy to get infected if you're not careful. And we don't have the luxury to be careful, not with so many. Our supplies are running low and there's not enough people to take care of them."

Ellen rubs the bridge of her nose. "How much are the demons charging for antibiotics, Missouri?" she asks.

The other woman shrugs. "Depends on what kind, but we're running low on everything. I wouldn't put it past them to hike the prices, though, just because we need them."

"They're sucking us dry," Gordon says roughly, crossing his arms. "Between prices for Croat and this, we're going to start dipping into debt, and borrowing from the demons never ends well. We just don't have enough credits to afford it all."

"The demons might be willing to accept something other than currency, though," Bela says suddenly. Ellen looks at her, eyes narrowed: Bela might be a human, but she liaisons far too often with the demons for Ellen's liking. "Their offer still stands. A dozen bodies to buy the lives of hundreds."

"No," Ellen says flatly. "We're not going to liberate humans just to sell them to the demons. We're supposed to be saving people, not condemning them. That's not up for negotiation, Bela."

Bela waves a hand, clearly unfazed. "Okay, then," she says. "Lilith thought you might say that, so here's another offer: give the angels to the demons, and the demons are prepared to offer twenty thousand credits in exchange. Usable on anything from medical aid to housing." She shrugs. "It's a good offer. It's not like we owe the angels anything, anyway."

Ellen sucks in a sharp breath at the sum. Twenty thousand credits is more than twice their current budget, and with the fall of sector four the money can only help. But—_is it worth it?_ Bobby seems to be going along the same thoughts as he meets Ellen's eye. "By angels you mean who?" he says, leaning forward.

"The prisoner—Cassiel, is it? And Gabriel, of course. The demons want their pounds of flesh, and of course, they're willing to compensate us for them." Bela looks around, raising an eyebrow. "And of course, they might be open to…negotiation, if you're willing. Maybe even thirty thousand credits would be in order."

There's silence for a moment. Finally, Bobby says, "I don't know about you all, but I'm going to say that the demons can shove this deal of theirs up their ass. It's a hell of a slippery slope from angels to humans, and you know that the demons sure aren't going to stop pushing the limits. We either stop this now, or we might as well turn ourselves in to the Republic because this is exactly what those damned angels would do."

Gordon shakes his head. "I say we go for it," he says. "Angels aren't the same as people."

"Agreed," Tamara says. "We've got to look out for our own people first. Gabriel's done us a favor or two, but he's still a damn angel to the bone. It's better if he goes. And about the prisoner, well, he's just taking up space that we could really use."

"Now, just hang on a minute!" Missouri says. "That poor boy didn't go through detox just so we can send him to Hell. A life's a life, and it doesn't matter if it's angel or human."

"The angels don't give a shit about humans, so why should we care about them?" Gordon retorts. "They slaughtered their way through sector four, and we've lost over two dozen human lives to their hands. They've shoved us full of their poison since the minute we were born. No, we don't owe them any favors, Missouri, so stop acting all sanctimonious."

"And the demons are so much better?" Missouri says, a look of anger coming over her face. "We shouldn't deal with them unless we absolutely have to, and never with lives, angel or human. I'm voting no. Absolutely not. Ellen, Bobby, Rufus, you see my point, right?"

"Morally speaking, yes," Rufus says slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. "Practically, I'm not sure the dead and dying are going to give a shit about how high-and-mighty we are. We've got folks camping in the halls because we don't have enough room."

"But like I said—the demons aren't going to stop with angels, Rufus," Bobby points out. "Next thing you know, we'll be mortgaging off our children for a truckload of Croat. No, I agree with Missouri—this stops now."

Gordon looks around the room, his eyes challenging. "Why don't we put it to a vote?" he says. "Majority choice. Ellen, you want to adjudicate, since Dr. Robert's out at the moment?"

Missouri shoots her a pleading glance. Ellen hesitates, then acquiesces. She'd like to say that she would say no, but morality's a hard thing to swallow when confronted with the dying and desperate. "All right," she says. "Majority choice wins. Those in favor of accepting?"

Defiantly, Gordon raises his hand, with Tamara following him a second later. Rufus wavers for a moment before shaking his head. "Damn," he says with a sigh. "Got to admit it, Bobby makes sense. We sell the angels out now, we're going to be skimming off our own people next."

Ellen nods at him, feeling a small rush of relief at having Rufus make the choice for her. "All right then," she says. "All in favor of rejecting?"

The result's inevitable: three against two. Ellen looks at Bela. "We're going to have to say no," she says. "Give Lilith our sincerest apologies."

Bela smiles at her, light and insincere. "Lilith sends her regrets. I'm afraid to say, though, that the demons have been suffering some financial troubles of their own lately. So effective immediately, Croat will rise to forty credits per kilo. I'm sure you understand."

"What?" Ellen says sharply. "There was another hike just a month ago, and they're raising the prices again?"

Bela shrugs. "I'm just the messenger. Forty credits, or you can have mass Croat detox on top of the fall of sector four."

"You can't do that!" Tamara shouts, jumping up. "Damn it, Bela!" Ellen recalls that Tamara uses Croat herself, and the desperation is clear in the other woman's voice. "We _need_ Croat, more now than ever before!"

"And we'll supply it, for a price. An updated list of inventory will reflect the price hikes," Bela says. Ellen narrows her eyes as she realizes that Bela's not bothering to use 'they' anymore, or even hide the fact that she's batting for the demons. "We'll be in touch."

She sweeps out of the room. It closes behind her with a quiet click that nonetheless has the ring of finality about it. Tamara sits down, looking furious and frightened all at once. "How are we going to deal with this?" she demands. "We've got almost four hundred Croat users here, and our supply isn't near enough to hold out if the demons choose to starve us. What're we going to do? We can't go without it!"

"Calm down," Bobby says, raising a hand. "Tamara, I'm sure we can work this out—"

"Don't you tell me to calm down, Singer!" Tamara shouts.

"Maybe it's time that we cut down on the addiction anyway," Missouri says thoughtfully. "After all, this dependence on the demons hurts us bad, maybe even worse than what the angels do."

"You can't cut down on Croat," Gordon growls, his hands clenching into fists. "We can't handle mass detox on top of everything else right now!"

"You're just saying that because _you_ don't want to detox," Rufus says, leaning back. "I'm interested, Missouri. Go on. Anything that can get our people off that shit is good on me."

"Slow detox with Grace," Missouri says. "I'd have to ask Dr. Robert about the practicality of this, but if Croat can wean us off Grace, then surely Grace can do the same. There's got to be a happy balance out there."

"It can't hurt," Ellen says, even as Tamara surges up, no doubt to voice another objection. "Missouri, get Dr. Robert to work his mumbo jumbo, see what he can find. I'm not saying it's a go, Tamara, so settle down. We'll wait and see. For now…" she sighs and rubs the bridge of her forehead. "Demons aside, we've got our people to take care of and four hundred refugees to relocate. Let's focus on that."

Tamara's look promises revenge later, but Ellen ignores it. She's got enough to worry about now.

((()))

_2.3: Gabriel_

Gabriel knows from the instant that the angels hit sector four that it's a done deal: the angels never attack unless they've planned the hell out of it, and no doubt they extracted all the information they needed from Sam and Anna. He briefly wonders what this means for Sam, and decides that that line of thought is too damn depressing for this time of day.

Besides, he's got bigger problems to deal with.

He gets sideways glances all the time when he walks through the halls. He's an archangel, Fallen or not, and he represents the essence of everything they fight against. Mostly, it's not really a problem because the Host doesn't infringe upon Oldtown. Sure, there are raids on warehouses and patrol sweeps, but there hasn't been a full-blown attack since…

Well, since he Fell.

Where best to spend his time now? He thinks about it for a moment and decides that the infirmary is best. He does patrol occasionally, but he doesn't think that his presence will be welcome on the battlefront now, and anyway, he's not really the gung-ho hunter type. But he can bandage and swab and stick people with needles with reasonable accuracy, and from the memo that went out earlier they're going to need all the help they can get.

It seems like a good idea, and Gabriel continues to think this right up to the point where he gets backed up against the wall by three guys whose ideas of menacing glares come out more like constipation. "Well, hi there," Gabriel says brightly. "You guys don't look bruised or anything, but I'm always happy to kiss them better just in case—"

"We don't need your kind around here," Thug One growls, his stinking breath blowing into Gabriel's face. Gabriel wrinkles his nose, smelling Croat on the man's breath.

"He's probably planning to murder us all in our sleep," Thug Two says. "He's already done in sector four. I'll bet you anything that he's the one who passed the information to the Host."

"Whoa, now guys, calm down," Gabriel says, holding his hands up. "I know you're upset, but honestly, use your brain for a moment, will you? I've been to sector four once, maybe twice. If I was going to pass information it would've been about this sector."

This appeal to logic fails miserably in the face of species prejudice. "He's too damn mouthy," Thug One says. Thug Three, the silent one, backs up this sentiment by looming over Gabriel menacingly. Gabriel notices that behind Thug Three's back, none of the other volunteers are intervening. If anything, they look…happy.

Gabriel sucks in a deep breath. Okay, he tells himself. Don't expect a white knight sailing in, or in fact any kind of support at all, because you're an angel in the midst of dickheads, and _owwww_—he gives out an _oof_ as Thug One slams a fist into his stomach. "Ouch," he wheezes, doubling over. "Was that really necessary—"

He ducks out of the way as Thug Two aims a second punch, and suddenly, Gabriel is really just _done_ with fucking around. Fine. They want to play, he'll oblige. If they'll brand him an angel, he'll be an angel, and one thing that angels are _really fucking good at_ is fighting.

Really, he'd actually feel kind of sorry for them if he wasn't so pissed off. Gabriel breaks Thug Two's wrist as the man tries to punch again. Thug Three gets two swift kicks, one to the kneecap to kick him off balance, and the second to the ankle to shatter his tarsal. Gabriel finishes off Thug One by slamming his head into the wall. It's over in less than a minute, and Gabriel steps away from the carnage, not even breathing hard. The back of his neck tingles as the shock of the spectators sweeps over him—it'll take about two seconds for that surprise to turn into hate.

He leaves the room quickly before that window closes, but the whispers follow him out into the corridor. Gabriel's eyes narrow, matching the gazes of the people who stare at him. Most of them have the shame to look away quickly, but there are enough who promise trouble.

The adrenaline's fading away, enough that Gabriel can acknowledge that yeah, maybe losing his temper wasn't the brightest thing he's ever done. But hell, he didn't sign up for this shit when he Fell.

Besides, what exactly does he owe the humans, anyway?

((()))

_2.4: Dean_

Dean wakes up to the hum of voices in the background. He keeps his eyes closed for a moment, not sure whether to panic, try to escape, or simply give up and wait for death. There's certainly enough crying and shouting to merit at least one of the options. His chest aches badly and his breath is a little jerky, which adds to the theory.

His hands move surreptitiously, examining his surroundings. He's lying on a bed. Not a hard steel or stone one like he'd always thought the Nest of Love would have, but one with actual sheets on it. He frowns, confused, and trail his fingers upwards, still keeping his eyes closed. There's something coming out of his nose—an oxygen line. Well, at least he hopes it's oxygen.

He's pretty sure that he's not in the Nest of Love. Which is surprising, to say the least. Dean concentrates on that adjective, studiously ignoring the flush of disappointment that sweeps over him. To take his mind of the possibilities and could-have-beens, he opens his eyes and looks around.

His settings are terribly familiar, although the last time he saw this place, there were considerably fewer people than there are now. Missouri usually keeps the three infirmaries spic-n'-span, but the room is absolutely chaotic. There are three beds, one of which he's lying on, and the other two, the floor, the steel operating table, and even a walnut chest of drawers have people lying on them.

He looks up as Jo sits down onto the bed next to him, wielding a penlight and a clipboard with efficient menace. "Good, you're awake," she says, briskly checking his pupils with the light. "How's your breathing? Do you still have a headache?"

"What the—I'm fine," he says, batting the light away. "Ow!" he adds as she reaches for the shirt he's wearing. It's tattered and gives way easily under her hands. "Jeez, Jo, time and place."

She gives him an unimpressed look and pulls the fabric aside. Dean glances down at his chest and whistles, impressed despite himself. His entire chest is mottled with deep bruises in an entire rainbow of colors, and a dirty white bandage is wrapped around his shoulder. Damn. No wonder it hurts. He hisses slightly as Jo presses the cold end of a stethoscope to his chest, but he stays quiet and concentrates on breathing.

"Well," she says finally. "You're not concussed, your breathing seems fine, and your shoulder's been bandaged. By the power invested in me, I hereby kick you out of here. Go forth and do something productive. Come by tomorrow to get your bandage changed." She scribbles down something on the clipboard, ripping a piece of paper off and handing it to Dean along with a clean shirt and a plastic baggie filled with pills. "Your clothes, your happy pills, your discharge sheet. Now scram."

"Wait, what?" Dean demands as he peels the ruined shirt off and pulls the clean one over his head with slow movements, careful of the bandage on his shoulder. He picks up the baggie and stuffs it into a pocket, ignoring it in favor of Jo. "Jo, sit down for a minute and talk to me. What happened? I thought I was going to wake up in the Nest of Love, not here. How did the fight go? Did we win?"

Jo pauses and runs a hand over her forehead, and Dean notices the lines of weariness around her eyes and the streak of blood half-dry on her sleeve. "Jo," Dean repeats, looking around the crowded room. "What happened?"

"We're evacuating sector four," Jo says tiredly. "Half of it's been taken by the angels, and the other half is in flames. Everyone who can get out, we're pulling them out."

"But we crashed the zeppelins!" Dean says.

"Yeah, most of the refugees are okay," Jo says with a nod. "Mom'll brief you more on that later, I guess. I think that—"

"Wait," Dean interrupts. "What happened to the others? Pamela, Victor, Gwen…"

Jo looks at him, her shoulders slumping. "Victor and Gwen are dead," she says finally. "Pamela…"

"Captured?" Dean asks, his chest tightening.

A faint smile nudges at the edge of Jo's mouth. "No. Small blessings. She's in the other room." She hesitates as Dean gets up, or at least tries to. "Look, she, uh…we think something exploded straight in her face or something. It's not pretty, Dean. We…we don't know if she'll ever see again."

"What do you mean?" Dean demands sharply.

Jo shakes her head helplessly. "Just watch yourself, okay? She's in pretty bad shape."

"Where is she?" Dean asks.

"Infirmary two," Jo says, jabbing her thumb to the right.

Dean gets to his feet and pulls out the oxygen line from his nose with sudden impatience. His chest aches with every single breath he takes and it's hard to walk in a straight line, but damned if he's going to give up. Jo turns back to other waiting injured, and he takes his time picking slowly through the crowd, trying to step on as few people as possible. He succeeds in getting to the door without any further trouble and eases it open.

The corridors are even more crowded than the infirmary. Dean closes his eyes as the stink of fear and blood and urine and rust rises to meet his nose, and he quickens his pace. Infirmary two is across the hall, and he opens the door, fully expecting even more carnage to greet his eyes.

It's just about what he expects: more injured lying on every single possible surface, hooked up to the ancient equipment that they've managed to pry from the Republic. He finds Pamela almost immediately—her head is swathed in bandages, but the tattoo on her back is a clear identifying mark. She's lying on one of the beds, hooked up to a ventilator and almost completely still except for the soft rise and fall of her breathing.

"Pamela," Dean whispers, all the strength suddenly leeching out of his limbs. The realization suddenly sweeps over him, belated but no less devastating: Victor and Gwen are dead, and Pamela may very well be joining them.

You saved the refugees, he reminds himself, but it's hollow consolation as he looks around the room. Yeah, maybe, but the victory was a pyrrhic one at best. He's never been very friendly with Gwen, but she's—_was_—a damned good pilot, maybe one of the best he'd ever known. And Victor had always been a solid backup next, second only to Sam, and now both of the were gone—

_Fucking angels_. How many more would they take from him? Dean looks down at the preternaturally still Pamela and feels the old rage rising up within him, bouncing off with nowhere to go. I'd do it again, he thinks, recalling with a savage pleasure the slack expression the one angel had had right after Victor shot him. "At least they went out fighting," he mutters, hoping that the words will do something to help fill the gap.

"Fucking angels," someone agrees in the background. Dean blinks for a moment, startled by the echo of his thoughts for a moment before realizing that the speaker's not actually talking to him. He turns around to see a crowd gathering around the last bed in the corner, staring at someone huddled in the middle. The speaker's a short woman he doesn't recognize, and while her right arm's in a splint, that doesn't stop her from gesturing wildly with her left. "Who does Ellen think she is, anyway, letting this piece of shit in here?" she says, jabbing her hand at whoever's in the center.  
>"We should've killed it long before detox ever hit!"<p>

It's not a riot yet, but the mood's getting ugly. Dean knows that it'll take very little to tip it into violence. He eases himself off the bed and moves to get a better look at their unfortunate scapegoat, and he gives a little sigh as he sees that it's Castiel. The angel is crouched in the center of the bed, his knees pulled up to his chest.

Fucking angel indeed—more to the point, _stupid_ fucking angel.

The crowd seems hesitant to break into violence, though, maybe because Castiel isn't actually doing anything or reacting to their taunts in the slightest. In the absence of all-out violence, a big guy reaches over and pushes Castiel. The angel doesn't react except to curl tighter, pressing his chin down to his knees. Emboldened, the big guy reaches out to push again.

Dean's hand snaps out and tightens around the man's wrist. Shocked, the big guy turns to look at him, and Dean feels a rush of surprise sweep over him as well. Evidently his arm moved without consultation with his brain, but it's too late to back out of it now. "No," he says, his voice coming out rougher than he expects. "He's mine."

It's a dumb thing to say, and Dean finds himself wondering about the words the second they come out of his mouth. To his surprise, though, the big guy gives a nod of understanding and steps back. Another surprise. Dean fumbles for a moment but manages to hide his surprise before the moment slips away. He crouches down, wincing at the movement, and looks carefully at Castiel. Castiel stares back at him, his eyes filled with the characteristic glaze of early initiation. No wonder he hadn't reacted—early initiation's tricky, and he's known one or two who've nearly starved before they snapped out of the catatonia.

"I'll deal with him outside," Dean announces to the expectant crowd. He straightens up with a little difficulty and tightens his fingers around Castiel's shirt. It takes all his strength and a good deal of wincing for him to pull Castiel out of the bed. The angel stands obediently enough, but the dazed look in his eyes doesn't really bode well.

Dean moves to stand behind him, pushing Castiel forward. The angel doesn't move. "Snap out of it," Dean hisses into Castiel's ear. "Damn it, listen to me and move your ass, because if anyone gets to thrash you it's going to be me!"

He closes his hand around the base of Castiel's neck and pushes him forward. Castiel twitches, a full body movement. There's a slight hesitation before Castiel begins to shuffle forward, with Dean maneuvering him around the wounded on the floor. The back of Dean's neck prickles with the force of the looks he's getting, but he studiously ignores them, moving Castiel out the door and closing the door behind him with studied nonchalance.

The hallway is just as crowded as before, but Dean manages to steer him through the halls with relatively little trouble—none of the others have followed them out, and it's difficult for people to tell angels apart from humans unless they're looking very closely. Castiel keeps his head down and thankfully follow Dean's lead, and he's able to get them both to his room without further trouble.

His room's tiny, but it seems like safe haven without the stink of blood and urine. Dean closes the door behind him and locks it before sagging onto the bed with a sigh of relief. He puts a hand to his chest and presses gingerly, wincing as the bruises emphatically tell him that they've had quite enough excitement for the day, thank you very much. "Damn," he says out loud to the silent angel. "That was close. What'd you do to piss them off?"

Castiel remains mute. Dean sighs again and forces himself to get up from the comfortable bed, tugging Castiel down to sit in the only chair in the room. "You look like shit," he says, studying the matted, oily state of Castiel's hair and the sad state of his clothes. He runs a finger along Castiel's lips, feeling the soft skin crack under his touch. "And you're dehydrated. Moron."

Dean looks around for a bit, patting his pockets down as if hoping to pull a bottle of water from his pants. He doesn't find one, but he does pull out the painkillers Jo gave him. Dean looks at them for a moment before setting them on the table and continuing his search. From a drawer in his bedstand, he pulls out what he hopes is a clean glass and fills it with water from a gallon bottle under his bed. Castiel looks at the water like he's never seen it before and makes no move to take it. When Dean presses the glass to his lips, though, he drinks it willingly enough, draining the whole glass. Dean watches him with a mingled feeling of relief and irritation.

"So," he says, setting the glass on the bedside table. "You're just sitting in the infirmary and minding your own business, and in storm a bunch of humans intent on kicking your sorry ass. You know why that is, Castiel?" He pauses, not really expecting an answer. Castiel doesn't offer one, but his eyes do move to focus on Dean's face, which he takes as a good sign. "Sector four's burning to the ground," Dean says as Castiel continues to watch him, the focus somewhat unnerving. "I guess people aren't going to be very happy about angels for a while."

Castiel continues to stay eerily quiet. "I bet you've done worse," Dean says, more to fill the silence than to hold an actual conversation. "I mean, you were one of the Host, right? That means you did your share of killing. Did they matter to you? I was, uh…there were kids there, Castiel. A bunch of your friends were loading them onto zeppelins. What were they going to do to them? Do you guys have some secret torture chamber—no, wait, you do, it's called the Nest of Love." He closes his eyes as the familiar wave of pain crests through him again, intensified by the all too physical ache in his chest. "You angels killed Gwen and Victor. I guess I shouldn't hold out hope for Sam being alive, should I?"

He scrubs his face with his palms, suddenly wanting a shower. The spray won't wash off the memories, but maybe when he's cleaner he won't feel so…_filthy_ anymore. Not just physically, but by what he's seen and done. Of course, it'll only be temporary, and it definitely won't wash away the things he's done and seen done to others.

His eyes snap open as he hears a rustle in front of him. Castiel stands in front of him, and for a moment Dean feels a frisson of fear work its way up his spine: if Castiel wants to attack, Dean's in a vulnerable position, especially as he's already injured. He edges away from Castiel as the other man sits carefully at the edge of the bed, every movement filled with slow hesitation.

Unbidden, an image rises into Dean's head—Sammy. John Winchester had taken his children out of the Republic when Dean was eight and Sam was four, almost four years after the death of Mary Winchester at the hands of the angels. Dean's initiation totally, utterly sucked, but at least it had come relatively quickly. Sam took a while more before Jess finally managed to trigger the flood. While Sam had been in early initiation, though, Dean recalls that Sam had been so _clingy_, holding onto an eight-year-old him like he was a lifeline.

There's probably some dumbass psychologist bullshit to explain the phenomenon, no doubt linking back to their tragic childhoods or something. Dean looks at Castiel, who studies him back with eyes that convey a plea that the angel won't or can't say. "Damn it," Dean mumbles, exhaustion sweeping over him suddenly. "I am really, really not paid enough for this shit." He holds up a hand in warning. "You grope me on the ass or anywhere and I'll toss you to the wolves," he warns. "And I'll enjoy it."

He shifts himself up against the wall, settling into a comfortable position on the bed. It takes some rearranging, but eventually Castiel ends up with his head pillowed against Dean's arm, his face pressed into Dean's neck. Dean listens to Castiel's breathing and waits for the aftereffects of the battle earlier that day to rise up—rage, hate, fear. He hates the angels, and he's not sorry that he killed them. He'd do it again in a heartbeat, one like the steady staccato that he can feel in Castiel's chest.

Dean presses his free hand to Castiel's chest, seeking out that heartbeat. Castiel stirs slightly, making as if to curl closer. "No moving around," Dean snaps half-heartedly. "My chest aches like holy fuck and I'm seriously not in the mood tonight."

Castiel stills instantly, the soft rise and fall of his chest becoming his only movement. Dean curls his fingers around Castiel's back and lets himself relax. The rage still lurks at the edge of his consciousness, but exhaustion quickly overtakes it as he slips into sleep.

((()))

He wakes up to banging on his door. "Dean Winchester, I know you're in there!" Ellen shouts through the door.

"Mmmph," Dean says eloquently in reply. He shifts in the bed, freezing as his hand comes into contact with a solid body. Oh, right. He'd slept with an angel—well, another angel, anyway. And a male one to boot. And it really, really wasn't as much fun as it sounded. Castiel's eyes flicker open sleepily once or twice before startling awake to full attention. With surprisingly quick speed, Castiel's sitting upright on the bed, cross-legged and watching Dean attentively. The only sign that he's been asleep is the tousled state of his hair.

"Dean!" Ellen bellows from the other side of the door, and Dean jumps. His chest protests at the movement, and Dean has to take a moment and just wince as his body's various pains and aches clamor for attention.

"Fuck, Ellen, I'm coming!" he yells back when he can manage to take a breath. "Just hang on, okay?"

It takes a minute more for him to pull himself free of the covers. The floor's cold, and it takes yet another minute for him to work up the nerve to step on it. When he finally does make his way to the door, he feels like he's aged a thousand years and with arthritis to boot. He pulls back the latch and confronts Ellen in a fine snit, which doesn't help at _all_. "The angels are gone," she says tightly as he looks at her inquiringly.

"Not even a good morning?" Dean asks.

"I haven't slept for thirty-six hours, Dean Winchester, so do not fuck with me. The council's got their hands full trying to arrange new supplies, housing and medical care for the refugees, and you've got nothing so far."

"I was recuperating from serious war injury," Dean protests. "Have some mercy, Ellen."

She raises an eyebrow. "Jo said that you were fit to be discharged."

"Discharged, maybe, go back into the front lines, no. Why are the angels my problem, anyway?"

"Because they're gone and you have spare time," Ellen says briskly. "Both Gabriel and Castiel are gone, and one thing we can't let them do is to go back to the Republic. So finding them is a bit of a priority."

"Ah," Dean says, acutely aware of Castiel behind him in the bed. "I see. I'll get right onto that, then. After I've cleaned up."

Ellen gives him a nod. Dean looks at her and sees the lines of weariness in her face that definitely weren't there the last time he saw her. "Ellen—you okay?" he asks, a bit belatedly.

She sighs. "Just find the angels, Dean, and don't let them get away," she says tiredly. She gives him a small smile. "Good work in the battle, by the way."

Yeah. Dean blinks rapidly for a moment as cold memory rushes back. "Damn," he says, more to himself than to Ellen. "Is, uh…is Pamela going go to be okay?"

Ellen checks her PDA and shakes her head. For a moment, Dean fears the worst, but then she says, "Her name's not showing up in the fatalities list. Other than that, you'd have to ask Missouri, Jo or Dr. Robert for more information." Her eyes soften as she looks up. "Maybe you could go check on her before hunting the angels down."

"I'll do that," Dean says softly. "Thanks, Ellen."

She nods and walks down the corridor. Dean closes the door quietly behind her and leans against the door for a moment, focusing on his breathing. He's aware of Castiel's gaze on him, and hell if he's going to have a Moment in front of the angel. "What?" he demands, his voice rough, staring defiantly back at Castiel.

"Dean?" Castiel says slowly, his eyes darting around the room.

"No shit," Dean tells him, folding his arms.

"What are you doing?" Castiel asks, his voice low and hoarse as his gaze finally settles on Dean. He pushes himself up from the bed, still looking confused.

Dean raises an eyebrow, surprised despite himself. "What, you're talking?" he says, pushing himself roughly away from the door and wincing as his ribs protest. "Nothing. Just grieving, but you wouldn't know anything about it." That's an unfair statement now that Castiel's gone through initiation, but the anger that exhaustion managed to keep at bay yesterday comes flooding back, triggered by memories of Gwen, speared in the pilot's seat. "I mean, your buddies had fun shooting the shit out of defenseless people. Is that what gets you off, huh? Breaking up families and destroying our lives? What, you're jealous that you can never have one of your own?"

Castiel doesn't say anything; his head tilts slightly to one side, but that's it. Dean groans and just as suddenly as it came, the anger seeps away, leaving nothing but disgust—at the angels, at Castiel, but also at himself. Dean sighs, running his fingers through his hair and wincing as he feels the soot and ash still stuck in it. "Look, what's done is done, I guess, and lynching you isn't going to help. Especially now that you've seen the light and everything. Or whatever." He shakes his head. "I, uh…I'm going to try to do something productive. Shower, eat. Find Gabriel. Focus on not dying." He grimaces as his chest reminds him why exactly dying might be imminent. "You, uh…stay here, I guess. The guys from yesterday might try to beat you up again. Stay here, don't break anything."

He turns his back on Castiel, intent on finding some clean clothes for the shower. He knows that the angel's staring at him, and if looks could kill he'd probably be dead ten times over by now. But Dean's had angels shoot at him, strangle him, wing him, knife him, so on and so forth, and a stare is a piece of cake in comparison.

It's an angel thing, probably. Anna has—_had_ the same kind of look, the one of sweeping intensity that intends to catalogue everything about you in seconds. It hadn't fazed Dean much either, except for those times maybe when they were in bed together. Dean would be _this close_ to falling asleep when all of a sudden the hairs on the back of his neck would stand up and he'd know that Anna would be staring at him again, the look on her face twisted with pain and something else that neither of them would ever talk about. Ever. Besides, after his little vacation in Hell, they didn't touch each other again and so that Look never had cause to bother him as they moved into separate rooms.

And then, well, she died.

Dean takes a deep breath, forcing himself not to turn around and demand that Castiel stop staring, because he's not going to let a little déjà vu bother him. Not all angels are the same, he reminds himself, and that applies not just to Anna but to any angel who's gone through initiation. They're not bound to some destiny or mold, just like the people who've gone through Hell aren't all demons who care only about blood.

But _hell_, it's hard to be fair sometimes.

He grabs a spare change of clothes and retreats to the refuge of the hunters' showers, which thankfully are free of the stink of blood. Two out of the eight stalls there are occupied when he enters, and he slips into the one at the end and bolts the door shut. The water's lukewarm and has an unpleasant rusty odor, but the feeling of it pounding on his back is a welcome relief.

Technically, they're supposed to conserve water, but Dean feels like he's earned a nice long shower filled with peace and quiet. The erratic spray pounding over his back and shoulders helps wipe off the physical soot and smoke, but it does nothing for the heavy knot that seems to have seated itself in his stomach. It's made up of a lot of things, he knows, and it seems impossible to unpick. At the heart of it is Sam, and all a sudden a wave of longing hits Dean hard enough that he finds himself leaning against the stained walls for balance. Sam's always been the soulful care bear type, and he knows how to deal with all this shit in thirty seconds flat. Dean, well, Dean's the fucked up one, he always has been. His job is to keep Sammy safe so his brother can save the world.

"Fuck," Dean whispers, leaning his forehead against the wall, his hands clenching into fists. What are the chances that Sam's still alive? What are the chances that Dean'll ever see him again?

Slim. Most likely, none.

Fuck you, angels, not if Dean Winchester's got anything to do with it.

Possessed by a sudden frenetic energy, Dean turns the water off with a hard jerk and gets dressed hurriedly, not caring about the sodden red of the bandage on his shoulder. He's not sure exactly what he's going to do, except that if he stays here with all these thoughts in his head for one more second he's going to start smashing things. He needs to move, to do things, to wear himself to exhaustion, because when he's exhausted, he doesn't have to think. Like yesterday. He remembers how quickly he dropped off to sleep, even with an angel curled up against his shoulder.

"Gabriel," Dean says out loud. Right. Ellen wants him to find the angels. _Dean_ wants to find the angels. He knows that Gabriel's said again and again that he doesn't know where the Nest of Love is, doesn't know where Sam might be, but Dean ignores past evidence in favor of the illusion of hope.

Fired up with new resolve, Dean's ready to go charging through the compound, but his aching chest reminds him that while he could be a whole lot worse, he's certainly not back to one hundred percent. Painkillers, he thinks, suddenly reminded of the packet on the bedside table in his room. And, oh yeah. Castiel. Also in his room.

He briefly entertains the thoughts of skipping the pills or going to beg Jo for a new prescription, but neither idea pans out: while the water did some good in loosening up his muscles, he's starting to ache all over again, and Jo's got enough on her plate without him bothering her. Dean refuses to hide from Castiel—it's his damn room, his damn pills. Besides, he's got nothing to prove.

Dean takes a deep breath and swings the door open. Castiel is still in the room, in the bed, almost exactly as Dean left him. Dean tosses his old clothes into a basket by the door before working up the nerve to look Castiel. The angel looks like a mess who desperately needs a shower, but something about the stupid blue puppy dog eyes has Dean feeling ridiculously guilty. It's an annoyance and a relief all at once: annoying because he owes Castiel nothing, and relief because he once thought that he might never feel guilt again, not when it comes to things he's done.

He buys himself a few more seconds by swiping the painkillers off the table and downing one in a glass of water. Without looking at Castiel, he says, "You know, I'm not your prison guard. You're free to do whatever."

The silence stretches on, and Dean decides to beat a hasty retreat while he still can. His hand's on the doorknob when Castiel speaks, his voice low but clear. "Where are you going?"

"Looking for Gabriel," Dean says, shoving aside uncomfortable sentimentality for the familiar irritation with Gabriel. "You haven't seen him around, have you?" Dean asks, turning around. "It would make my life a hell of a lot easier."

Castiel frowns and shakes his head. "Not since before," he says, and Dean instantly knows what _before _he's talking about. Yeah. Before Initiation and After Initiation. There was a point when he was twelve when his life was like that as well, before more important lines of distinction appeared. Damn. The guilty feeling in Dean's stomach squirms, and it's absolutely ridiculous, because it's not like he's done anything wrong. A small petty voice in his head reminds him that he saved Castiel's sorry ass yesterday, and he mourns what happened to Anna probably more than Castiel ever can. Besides, it's not like Dean doesn't have reasons to hate the angels. The image of the children is still fresh in his mind, and there's Sam. Sam who's gone, and hell, that brings his thoughts back to Anna again…

Dean coughs and clears his throat. Gabriel, Gabriel, be pissed at Gabriel. It's safer. "Yeah, well, he's pissed off the middle of nowhere and it's my job to dig him out," Dean says, his voice rough. He reaches for the doorknob again before sighing and turning back. "Look," he says to Castiel, feeling the weight of the angel's gaze on him. "I, uh. Look." Dean takes a deep breath. "I suck at this shit," he mutters to himself before looking Castiel straight in the eye. "I'm sorry about Anna."

"She was my sergeant. In the Host," Castiel says, his voice very low.

Dean raises an eyebrow. He knows that Anna had been a sergeant, but this is new information. Well, it explains her reaction that day, why she hadn't let Dean shoot him. "Huh," Dean says, mildly impressed. "She mentioned once or twice that she commanded, but other than that, she was pretty quiet on her old life."

Castiel studies him for a moment, his head tilting to one side. "You knew her," he says. "Not just as an angel."

"Well, I definitely knew her in a biblical sense," Dean says. He runs a hand through his damp hair, more rueful now than anything else. "Broke it off after a while, though. Things just happened and, uh, I couldn't." It's a cheesy line to say, but it's true that the breakup was completely Dean's fault. Anna had been there after Hell, willing to take on Dean and his tons upon tons of baggage—the nightmares, the screaming, the way his hands sometimes wrapped around the back of a razor and refused to let go. But Dean—he'd—

"Anyway. It's over," Dean concludes. He trails off into silence.

The corner of Castiel's mouth tugs down slightly. Thankfully, he doesn't pursue the subject, diving for safer ground. "Where do you think Gabriel is?" he says instead.

Dean sags, thankful. "I thought I might try his room," he says, his mind switching to more practical matters with no little relief. "I mean, start with the basics, right? And then go through the logs and see if he did his past couple shifts, which he probably didn't. Go to the storeroom and find how much candy is left. You know, the basics." He waves a hand in the air for emphasis and winces as his chest reminds him why minimal movement is advised. "Fuck."

Castiel shifts on the bed, and Dean freezes. The air is suddenly filled with tension, and it takes more than a moment before Dean realizes that Castiel has merely shifted position, coming closer to the edge of the bed. "Give a guy some warning, Cas," Dean says weakly.

"I apologize," Castiel says, although he doesn't look very sorry. Still, it's a pretty big victory, managing to get an actual apology from an angel (a Fallen one, but still).

Dean takes a deep breath experimentally. His chest aches, but the pain's manageable. "Yeah, well, just don't do that again," he says gruffly. Another breath, stretched into what feels like an eternity of awkward silence. "I'll, uh. I'll go look for Gabriel now. I guess."

"Yes," Castiel says. It's a simple word, one syllable, more an exhalation of air than an actual word. Yet Dean still manages to hear a tone in it that pokes at the guilt with a stick. Embrace it, Dean reminds himself. It's a reminder that you still have a conscience.

It's easy to be kind to your friends, your family. Not so easy when it comes to strangers. Even damn harder with an angel.

"Why don't you come with me?" he says impulsively. He has to stop and take a moment to process the words after they come out of his mouth, but his eyes don't miss the way that Castiel straightens up, a bit of life coming into his eyes. "You're an angel, maybe you'll see something that I miss."

Castiel doesn't say anything; he just nods and rises from the bed with the smooth, fluid grace of the angels. It's more than a little disconcerting at the way the guilt recedes as Castiel comes to his side, the Look scanning him up and down and no doubt cataloguing everything about him, from the hole in his shirt to his shoe size. Everything physical, anyway, Dean just hopes that with Castiel's complete ineptitude when it comes to emotions, he won't know a damn thing about the thoughts currently whirling through Dean's mind.

He turns away. "Let's go get you cleaned up first," he says gruffly. "Then we can start."

((()))

_3.1: Castiel_

Anael's death plays itself over and over in his head, her screams never fading from his mind. The vague stirrings he had from before are multiplied in intensity until they become something so powerful that not even years of control can rein them in. In a way, it's like detox all over again. Castiel loses control of his body for the second time in his life, only this time, something deep and primal rises up to compound the ordeal—disgust. Disgust at himself, at the loss of control, at the way he's betrayed _everything _by losing control of himself.

_It shouldn't hurt this much_. While the Host mostly aims to capture and rehabilitate, he's spent a period of his novitiate in the different Nests. He's seen far worse at the hands of the Nest of Love and never had the torture affected him as much as this simple execution. Nothing he can think of can account for it—yes, he knew Anael, but in the way of the Host: as a comrade, another gear in the machinery of the Republic.

When he first wakes up, it's to hard, rapid breathing and the sense that the air in his lungs is burning him from the inside out. There's no physical fire, but at the same time he's burning painfully enough that he can almost feel the fire licking over his skin. It's completely, utterly irrational and he hates it, hates the way that his body's betraying him. This time, there are no excuses: he knows with a piercing clarity that he's Fallen, and that this is his punishment.

To that end, Castiel doesn't beg for Grace, even though he wants it with a visceral intensity that's even stronger than the initial detox. No, he'll take it in silence, because if there's anything he knows how to do, it's to keep quiet and take it. Angels aren't created to think, they're created to serve, in whatever way the Father sees fit. And when an angel no longer serves, well, what are they good for?

Doubt clouds his thoughts—he betrayed the Father, yes, _but didn't the Father betray_ him_ first?_ What does he owe to a distant god? But no, who is he to judge, this isn't his prerogative. The seraphs, the archangels, _they_ give the orders, he obeys, and that's the way it's always been. _Don't think, angels don't think. _He's broken, he's useless, he's been cast out for his sins, but where did he go wrong and who does he owe? _No,_ _just obey, by what right do you claim justice?_ Who do you think you are, human?

There's a room waiting for him in the Nest of Love, but at least the fires there can't be any worse than the fury inside his head. The shouting outside only seems to compound it. There's hate within and without, and he knows with a fatalistic intensity that he'll never be free of it. He's turned his back on the Host, and there's no place for him with _humans_. Angels and humans should never mix.

But if they don't, what is he doing here?

The arm wrapped around him is reassuringly solid, an anchor in the midst of the chaos. The touch and weight and smell and breath slow the thoughts down—not entirely, but enough that for what feels like the first time in days, Castiel can breathe without the taint of smoke burning his nose. Castiel's Fallen, but at the same time, someone or something is here to soften the fall. The torrent in his head is finally slowing down enough that he can process the thoughts and resolve them. He can control this—well, not control, but he can learn to live with these _emotions_. He hopes, anyway.

Everything's new. Angels don't hope, just like they don't question or wonder or doubt. Perhaps this means that he's no longer an angel anymore. But if he's not an angel, then what is he?

((()))

The shower is a welcome relief after the dirt and filth of so many days. He takes longer than the regimented five minutes allowed by the Host, but only by a minute or so—old habits die hard, even more so as he has nothing to replace them with. He dries himself quickly and dresses in a pair of Dean's old shirt and jeans. The feeling of clean clothing against clean skin is something that brings an untold amount of relief.

"Everything in place?" Dean asks as he emerges from the showers. Castiel nods silently in response, and Dean hands him a mustard-yellow trenchcoat. "Here. Thought you might be cold," Dean says. "It's fucking ugly, but hey, beggars can't be choosers and all that. Believe me, out of the other choices at the lost and found, it's the best." Castiel regards it for a moment and shrugs; concepts of beauty and ugliness are almost meaningless to him even now. He pulls it on and looks expectantly at Dean.

"Okay, then," Dean says, clapping his hands together. He's speaking loudly and his voice is a bit too animated to be real, but then again, Castiel has poor judgment when it comes to emotional intonation. "I, uh, I thought we might try Gabriel's room first, you know?" Castiel nods, and there's awkward silence for a moment before Dean turns and gestures for Castiel to follow him.

Castiel stays just behind Dean. He feels…well, he's not sure what he feels. Anxious, perhaps. Tense. Dean's voice is bright and cheerful, but his posture and stance speak of barely controlled frenzy. Castiel wonders how much it will take to break the dam, and just how explosive the eruption will be.

"I actually wouldn't be very surprised if Gabriel's run off," Dean says suddenly. He slows his pace enough that he walks even with Castiel. "I guess it's kind of weird when I think about it, though. Gabriel's been with us for more than a decade, Anna for a lot less than that. I wouldn't trust Gabriel to spit on me if my hair was on fire, though, much less in an actual fight."

Dean looks contemplative, almost wistful when he mentions Anna's name. For a moment Castiel feels something powerful and dark swamp him before it fades away as quickly as it comes. "She was a good sergeant," he says at last, hoping that they're the right words to say.

"Define good," Dean says, raising an eyebrow. "Because I'm pretty sure you and I have different definitions of the word."

That's an easy question. "Efficient. Obedient. Decisive."

"Aren't obedience and decisiveness kind of contradictory? How can you follow orders but also make decisions?"

Castiel shrugs. "We uphold the will of the Father in many ways."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "That's angelspeak for…?"

"The Father orders, the archangels interpret, and the lesser angels obey," Castiel says. "In the course of our obedience, we act according to the rules of logic laid down by the Word."

"How do you know if the archangels' interpretations are right or not?" Dean asks. His voice is a layer of leaves over a very, very deep pit filled with stakes, and Castiel frowns, searching for the trap. "I mean, honestly, Cas—have you ever seen the Father? Really seen him?"

Castiel tenses. "I know my Father," he says slowly. "He…he may not always care about me. But—"

"Basically, he doesn't care if you live or die," Dean says. His tone is careless, almost idle, but the way his eyes slide to look at Castiel is a dead giveaway. "In fact, Cas, I don't even think he's real. I think he's a lie made up by the archangels to keep us all quiet."

The thought rings too close for comfort, an echo of Castiel's own worries. Still, while the Father may have abandoned him, it's another thing altogether to imply that the Father doesn't exist at all—

Castiel buries the thought, determined to ignore this blasphemy altogether. "I see," he says shortly, knowing that it'll be a waste of breath to argue this with Dean.

Dean's quiet for a moment. "Do you know what happened before the Republic, Castiel?" he asks finally.

"Yes," Castiel says, allowing his temper to get the best of him. "There was anarchy. The old humans poisoned themselves with radiation in their pointless battles over territory and wealth, and the Republic was the only thing that saved it. And right now, you humans want to plunge us back into the darkness all over again." He takes a deep breath. "The Host prevents that," he says, not sure whether he's trying to convince himself or Dean. "Even if I am no longer a part of it, I understand that."

Dean sucks in a sharp breath. When he next speaks, it's deadly serious, without any hint of baiting or mockery. "Cas, if you had the chance to go back to the Host even knowing that they'd kill you, would you take it?"

"Of course," Castiel answers automatically. He hesitates and almost stumbles, straightening himself up at the last moment. "Yes."

Dean doesn't say anything else, and when he stops, Castiel almost walks right into him. Dean doesn't turn to look at him, instead turning to the door at his right. "Gabriel!" Dean shouts, banging on it. "Gabriel, you son of a bitch, come out!"

Nobody comes out.

"Damn it," Dean mutters after a few more minutes of fruitless banging. He shoves his hands into his pockets and scowls at the door as if hoping to burn a hole through it with his stare. "Fucking angels."

It's not directed at Castiel. Castiel honestly shouldn't care about the opinions of humans, but still, the words cut deeper than he thought possible. Castiel schools his face to blankness as Dean wrestles with the lock and bangs some more on the door. When it's evident that Gabriel's not inside (or doing a very good job of ignoring them), Dean whirls away from the door and starts walking down the corridor at a brisk pace. It can't be painless from the way he's also holding a hand to his chest, but Dean shows no signs of slowing down.

They don't go far before Dean stops at another door. This one has a sign on it: _Dr. Badass is IN_. Castiel wonders who Dr. Badass is, but there's no time for speculation. Dean knocks perfunctorily on the door before opening it and striding inside. "Ash!" he calls.

"In here!" a voice replies. A thin man with long blond hair emerges from the stacks, carrying something pointy in his hands. He sets it carefully on the table before turning to greet them. "Dean! Long time no see, my man."

"Ash," Dean says. Castiel blinks, startled. Dean's voice is lighter, friendlier, with some of the tension leeching away from his stance as he talks to Ash. "Need your help."

"I live to serve. And you must be Castiel," the man says brightly, holding out a hand to Castiel. "What's up? It's great to finally meet the third angel."

Castiel stares at him flatly. The man's smile falters before sliding off his face altogether, and he withdraws his hand somewhat awkwardly. He turns to Dean, who's giving Castiel a look that Castiel doesn't bother to understand. "So, Dean," the man says. "What can I do for you?"

"Ash, I need the key to Gabriel's room," Dean says.

Ash raises an eyebrow. "And I'm going to have to say no. Privacy, man. It's the new thing, ever heard of it?"

"Ellen's trying to find him," Dean says. "He hasn't shown up since the raid and nobody knows where the hell he is."

"And snooping his room's going to do what again?"

"I'm not 'snooping his room,'" Dean says impatiently. "I'm trying to see if he's sulking in there, because he won't answer my knock."

Ash shrugs. "Guy wants a little alone time, who are you to say no?"

"_Ash_."

"Dean, I can't just give out keys willy-nilly; Ellen would have my head. Plus, I have a moral code and everything."

"Really. How's that working out?"

"Better than you think." Ash crosses his arms. "Look, I'm not a fan of this idea. He's an angel, yeah, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have some rights." He rubs his nose for a moment, evidently thinking. "Hey, angel," he says, turning to Castiel. "What do you think? I mean, Gabriel's your brother and all, isn't he? I'll let you break the tie on this one."

Castiel blinks as he realizes that Ash is talking to him. Dean's eyes fix onto his face with a desperate, almost hungry look. Castiel reviews the situation briefly in his head, contemplating the idea of privacy. It's such a _human _ideal, to be honest, and the idea of an angel judging is a ludicrous one. "Open the room," he says briefly, turning away. It's not his duty to defend human concepts.

Something flashes across Dean's face, so quickly that Castiel almost misses it. He captures it in his mind and files it away to study later as Dean turns back to Ash, holding out a hand. The other man sighs and rubs a knuckle across his forehead. "Damn," Ash says. "Should've figured the angel would side with you. Is it just me, or do you have a way with them? First Anna, now your boy here…"

"If I had a way with them, I wouldn't have to resist the urge to kill Gabriel on an almost daily basis," Dean growls. "The key, Ash."

Ash sighs again and wanders off into the heaps and stacks to find the key. It takes a moment before Castiel realizes that Dean's staring at him in a way that's more than a little disconcerting. He steals a glance out of the corner of his eye, noting that the hungry look is back on Dean's face.

"Got it!"

He's saved from having to reply by Ash's call. Ash emerges from the stack, holding up a key triumphantly. "You have to return this to me ASAP," Ash warns. "Or else I'll call the hellhounds."

"You don't have any hellhounds," Dean grumbles.

"I'll get my hands on a puppy one of these days," Ash says.

"Yeah, you do that," Dean says. "Thanks, Ash," he adds belatedly, pocketing the key.

"Keep your nose clean and I'll call it even," Ash says, waving him off. "And angel, loosen up. Get the stick out of your ass, man. You could learn a thing or two from Gabriel, to be honest. Guy gets the best candy this side of the Republic." He grins at Dean's exasperated look. "What?"

Dean shakes his head and heads for the door. Castiel lingers for a moment until Dean gestures in a _come on_ motion for Castiel to follow him. Which he does, of course.

((()))

The walk back to the room is quiet and somehow awkward. "You didn't have to do that," Dean finally says as they stop outside of Gabriel's room. "Thanks. I guess."

Castiel tilts his head inquiringly, confused. "For what?" he asks.

Dean looks at him and frowns. "For siding with me. That was unexpected."

Castiel blinks. "I don't understand."

Dean opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Castiel watches him fumble through the words before shaking his head and closing his mouth again. "Nothing."

He turns his back to Castiel and fumbles the key into the lock. There's a moment of maneuvering before the lock gives way and Dean pushes the door open, turning on the light as he enters. Castiel looks around. He has to take a moment to process the scene, as the room is a bright explosion of color, the polar opposite of the austere angel barracks. Castiel walks over to the walls, examining them. They're covered in…_paintings_. He wouldn't have expected this from Gabriel, but then again, he knows very little about his brother. In fact, he's starting to realize that he knows very little about people in general.

A riot of bright colors dominate the paintings on the wall, depicting scenes of nature that Castiel once regarded with indifference. He recalls that the sunrise Gabriel brought him to watch, and how blankly he'd looked at it. He draws a hand across its canvas counterpart, wondering at the blend of colors above the star itself, at the faint mist that lingers at the edges. It's _strange._ He can name the shades, and with a little calculation he's willing to bet that he could also find the proportion of each color. But simple numbers and ratios don't tell the whole story, another telling difference of the complexity of humans.

Behind him, Dean lets out a low growl. "Fuck!" he says. "Where the hell has the bastard gone?"

Castiel glances back at him. Dean sounds _angry. _Not just exasperated or irritated, but genuinely, completely angry. Castiel frowns, trying to puzzle it out, but Dean's already talking again. "I guess I could try his radio, but it'd be just like Gabriel to leave it behind while he runs around outside even though he knows damn well it's against the rules. You know, for an angel, Gabriel sure likes breaking a whole lot of rules," Dean says, whirling around to glare at Castiel in an almost accusing way. "I thought you guys would stop breathing if your precious 'Father' told you so."

Castiel tenses as Dean takes a step closer towards him. "Gabriel is not confined to his rooms," Castiel says warily. "There was never any guarantee that he would be in here—"

"Shut up!" Dean snaps. "Stop being so _logical_ all the time and just—fucking—_listen!_" With a brutal, almost vicious movement, Dean pulls one of the paintings off the walls, sending it crashing to the floor. "Waiting, waiting, waiting. You know what, I'm fucking sick of waiting. Anna _died_ while I was waiting!" he snarls, his hands curling into fists. "And Sam—what the hell, if Sam's not dead already, he could be getting tortured at this very moment, and all I can do is _wait_—"

Dean's visibly shaking with pent-up energy and rage, and Castiel finds himself analyzing it even as he shifts his stance to a better defensive position. Emotion is tricky ground, and Castiel falls back on his old tool, logic. "Getting angry will get nothing done," he points out. "Whereas Gabriel might simply be outside and—"

Dean turns onto him, eyes wild. Castiel moves without thinking, dodging the blow that Dean throws at him. Castiel turns and slams into Dean's chest. A strangled wheeze erupts from Dean at the impact. As Dean stumbles, Castiel catches Dean's arm and pulls it back hard, pushing until Dean slams into the wall and dislodges a painting. Dean's face is pale with pain, the whites of his eyes showing as Castiel holds him still. "Let me go," Dean rasps through pained breaths, struggling in Castiel's grip.

"No," Castiel says. His eyes flick down the bandage on Dean's shoulder, but he doesn't ease his grip. "You're not rational right now."

"I'll give you rational, you son of a bitch _let me_ _go—_"

"_No_," Castiel growls. "Anger won't help you in any case. You have work to do."

"To hell with the work! I swear, Castiel, if you don't get your hands off me I'll fucking rip your head off—"

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Castiel says. His heart's pounding hard and adrenaline's coursing through his veins, making him struggle to keep his voice steady in a way he's never had to struggle before. "Stop shouting for thirty seconds. Calm down. _Think. _There are a dozen reasons that Gabriel might be missing—"

"It's not about Gabriel, you moron!" Dean says. Castiel thinks that it's meant to be an angry shout, but Dean's voice sounds broken, almost…desperate. "Even if I did find Gabriel, it's probably too late. They've already killed Anna, Sam's probably already dead, and I can't change the past. What the hell's the _point_ of it all, Cas?"

Castiel takes a deep breath as realization washes over him. "You want to find Gabriel…to find Sam?"

"I'd tear the world apart for Sam," Dean answers, his voice raw.

The words hit Castiel like a blow, cutting to the heart of something that Castiel wasn't even aware existed inside of him. The world is off-kilter once more, filled not with cool, clear-cut logic but with the sticky, writhing chaos of _emotion_.

And Castiel _hates_ it.

((()))

_3.2: Dean_

The angel lets go of Dean, stepping back just out of reach. Dean sags against the wall, breathing hard. Fuck! His chest and shoulder hurt like hell, and it takes all of his energy just to suck in air past the pain in his ribs. Fucking angels.

He's aware of Castiel's gaze on him, silent and watchful and unnerving as hell. Dean looks up at him. The trenchcoat hides a fairly underweight body, but Dean's felt the strength in those arms firsthand and knows that appearances can be deceptive. Yesterday, Castiel was at his mercy, easy to break or bend as Dean wished. To think that one night of touch could make such a difference—

—and it could have been _much_ more different—

The stupid bastard doesn't know how lucky he is.

"I wanted to torture you at first," Dean says through clenched teeth. "I've done it before. I enjoyed the hell out of it, too. Right after I came back from Hell, I thought that every problem could be solved with the blade of a razor." He takes a deep breath and flinches as his ribs protest. "Almost like an angel in that thought."

"But you didn't," Castiel says, meeting Dean's gaze. "Why?"

Dean smiles bitterly. "It's my job to take care of Sam," he says. "Sometimes it works the other way around, though."

Castiel pauses, and when he next speaks, his voice contains a low note of uncertainty. "You sought to honor his memory?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "That sounds so fucking lame. I didn't want to honor anything. I just—I wanted to be somebody else." Someone who could be what Sam thought he was: the big brother, the responsible one. Not fucked-up Dean Winchester.

"What happened yesterday, Dean?"

Dean frowns, surprised by the question. Castiel looks back at him with inquiry in his eyes, sincere enough that Dean reluctantly answers. "Your asshole buddies torched sector four. Tons of people died. Gwen's dead, Victor's dead, a bunch of other good people are dead or dying."

Castiel shakes his head. "Yesterday night," he says.

Dean grimaces. "You were there, why do you need me to tell you?" he asks in lieu of an answer.

"I don't fully understand it," Castiel says, and for the first time, his gaze wavers and he looks down. "With Grace, it was easy to discern motives and psychology. It's…_different_, now."

"Yeah, well, sucks to be you," Dean mutters. "Sucks to be everyone else in this whole fucking world, because if you're not the angels' bitch, you're the demons'. Can't win, being a human."

"You seem to have done all right for yourselves." Dean looks at Castiel sharply, but Castiel's staring off at some point in space. "Oldtown is not as unstable as we were informed."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, but I'm sure you're 'informed' a whole lot better now that the Host destroyed sector four."

"You were there?" Castiel asks, leaning forward slightly.

"Yes," Dean snaps, hating the taste of iron that rises in his mouth as he remembers. "I saw the children's compound burn, you son of a bitch. I don't know how many people died on that zeppelin, not to mention the whole attack." He sucks in a deep breath. "They were noncombatants, you son of a bitch. Old people, kids."

A crease appears between Castiel's eyebrows. "They attacked children?"

"Used them for fucking target practice," Dean says, crossing his arms. "What, don't tell me you're all broken up about it? Spare me the fake sympathy."

Castiel shakes his head, but he doesn't say anything for a moment. When he does, his voice is quiet, almost subdued. "Families are a human concept," he says. "Only the Chosen are allowed such a luxury, and even so, they are…regulated."

"Efficiency rules all," Dean says sarcastically. "Long live the Father. Huzzah."

Castiel doesn't rise to the bait, but he does look at Dean again. "You left when you were eight," Castiel says.

It's enough of a non sequitur that it gives Dean pause. He takes his time before saying grudgingly, "Didn't do it alone. Dad pulled us out."

"John Winchester. Why did he wait until you were eight to leave?" Castiel asks, leaning forward.

There's a strange intensity to his voice, but Dean brushes it off, irritated. "How the fuck do I know? I was eight." Dean glares at Castiel, increasingly annoyed. "This has nothing to do with here and now. You've got no right to pry into the past like this."

Castiel's eyes give him the Look, but Dean refuses to give way. There's a long moment of silence before Castiel straightens up and looks away. "I understand," he says quietly.

There's silence. Dean's won a victory, but it's anticlimactic enough that feels like nothing. "Whatever," he mutters, deflated. Silence. "I don't have time for this shit, okay?" He pushes himself up to his feet, wincing as his ribs protest. "I've got to go and find Gabriel."

He picks up the key from the floor and pushes past Castiel, who doesn't move. "Shut the door behind you when you leave," Dean throws over his shoulder as he leaves the room.

((()))

When and if Dean finds Gabriel, he's going to kill the son of a bitch.

Gabriel's radio is still in his locker, which is annoying but not unexpected. An announcement put over the PA system reaps nothing. Nobody knows where the hell he's gone, or if they do, they're sure not spilling a word of it to Dean. To make matters worse, his shoulder and chest have gone past the throbbing stage and are now making themselves known with full-blown blazes of pain. Dean finds himself taking the painkillers two at a time, which definitely can't be good.

He finally gives up around four in the afternoon. He makes his way to the cafeteria, drops heavily into a seat, and pulls out the packet of pills for the umpteeth time, crinkling the plastic in restless hands. There are only six left out of the original dozen, but fuck, it hurts to breathe. He pulls his shirt back to look at his throbbing shoulder and winces as he sees the bandage is stained through with blood.

Dean scrubs his face with his palms wearily. He wants to sleep like there's no tomorrow. He wants to get seriously fucking drunk and pass out. He wants the events of the past few hours—days—weeks—to vanish as if they never existed. More than anything, he wants the hollowness in his chest to go away.

Unfortunately, life's a bitch and he's not going to get any of that, because he's Dean fucking Winchester.

"Well, fuck you," he mutters to himself.

"Thought I raised you better than that, boy," a gruff voice says. Dean opens his eyes and forces out a tired smile as Bobby slides into the seat next to him. "Been looking for you all day. You look like shit."

"Thanks a ton, Bobby."

"It's true. You should get some more sleep," Bobby advises.

"I can't," Dean says wearily. "I've got to look for Gabriel. Ellen's orders."

"Gabriel's a big boy. He can take care of himself," Bobby says. "You wouldn't push yourself this much if there weren't some other reason behind it all. What's really bothering you?"

Dean groans and drops his head into his hands. "Spare me the shrink talk, Bobby," he says. "I'm fine. Just tired. I mean, I was only in a firefight and zeppelin crash yesterday, nothing major."

"Don't get sarcastic with me," Bobby says. Dean feels something nudge the side of his face and looks up to see a roll held inches from his nose. "Eat something before you fall over. We can't have you collapsing of starvation in the midst of plenty."

"I'm _fine_, Bobby," Dean says irritably. Actually, he hurts like fuck and feels kind of nauseous in the bargain, but hey, for the purposes of this conversation it's one and the same. "What did you want me for, anyway?"

"Want you for? I don't always need a reason to seek you out," Bobby answers, setting the roll down on the table. He adjusts his cap slightly and looks sternly at Dean. Dean returns his stare flatly. "What?"

"Keep it up, Bobby," Dean says tiredly, rubbing his forehead.

Bobby threads his fingers together and stares off into the distance for a long moment. "You did good work out there, Dean," Bobby says finally, not looking at Dean.

"What happened to the kids? The old?" Dean asks. "Did they die in the crash or…"

Bobby hesitates before answering. "They're…four of them are in the infirmary. Two others got rushed to emergency surgery yesterday afternoon. They should be doing okay."

"How many dead?" Dean asks bleakly.

Bobby fidgets with the rim of his cap. "You managed to save the compound from a massacre, Dean," he not-answers. "You did the best you could when it came to defending those people. Dean, it was the—"

"_How many dead?_"

"They ain't your responsibility," Bobby says firmly. "And that's all I'm going to say on the matter."

Dean gives out a low hiss of frustration, but Bobby seems unmoved. "Fine," Dean finally manages through clenched teeth. "Maybe the kids aren't, maybe I did do the 'best I could,' whatever the fuck that means. But Gwen and Pamela and Victor _were_. Pamela might never see again, Victor and Gwen are dead. Sam's—he's— " Dean flinches as pain, both mental and physical, streaks through his chest.

Bobby sighs. "Sam was like a son to me, you know that," he says quietly. "I miss that boy more than you'll ever know. But I can't just let myself sit around, not when people are dying out there, Dean. We've still got work to do."

"What is it that you think we can accomplish?" Dean demands, and damn it, now he's shouting, the normal hubbub of the cafeteria quieting to hear his outburst. "What're we doing here, Bobby, if it's a war we can never win and an enemy that can never feel? We aren't doing anything to the angels except maybe annoying them, and hell of a lot good _that's_ going to do!"

"What's gotten into you, boy? It ain't like you to be a quitter," Bobby says, eyes narrowed.

"Yeah, well, I'm not a lot of things, Bobby. I'm not a hero, and I'm sick of seeing people die. You know what, Bobby? I'm done, all right? I'm done."

It comes in a rush—all of a sudden, Dean is acutely aware of the eyes on him, the tense silence that's fallen over the cafeteria, the people and their hopes and their expectations. He's a Winchester, a member of the council, a commanding officer in this ragtag little organization. And in the end, though, what can he actually _do_? Can he save people from getting shot down by the angels? Can he save the people he loves? Can he save Sam?

No.

He's so tired.

He stalks out of the cafeteria and into the corridors at a relentless pace, heedless of the growing pain in his chest and shoulder. It feels deserved, like penance for a growing list of sins. He's been in dozens of fights over the years, and the list of casualties grows as the memories unfurl in his mind. Logically, he knows that he's not responsible for most of them—hell, maybe all of them—but his brain presents a much more convincing case when it tells logic to go and fuck itself.

The halls grow more crowded as he moves through the halls, and it takes him a few minutes to realize that his steps have been leading him towards the infirmary. Pamela, he thinks with a pang. He hasn't seen her all day, and she might never see him again.

He picks his way carefully through the waiting lines of the injured before easing open the door to infirmary two. He looks for the bed she was lying on yesterday, but there's someone else on it instead—a stocky bald guy with two broken limbs. "Damn it," Dean mutters under his breath, dread filling him. That means one of two things—she's been moved to another room, or she's dead.

He backs out of the room and heads for the medical office. The normally pristine office is cluttered; several of the desks have been shoved together to make room for four pallets on the ground. Jo sits crouched on one of the chairs, typing furiously on a grubby old-fashioned keyboard. He perches gingerly on the table next to her, mindful of the growing throb in his shoulder. "Hey."

"What do you want, Dean?" Jo asks, not looking up.

Something to knock me out until all this shit is over, Dean thinks, but he doesn't say it out loud. "Have you seen Pamela?" he asks instead.

Jo glances at him. "I think she's been moved to infirmary four," she says. "We're trying to triage everyone, and the worst cases should be there." She frowns. "Are you okay, Dean? You look kind of flushed."

"I'm fine," Dean manages. "Thanks, Jo."

"No problem," Jo says, but she gives him one last troubled glance before turning away. Dean heads out of the office and for infirmary four, bracing himself before he opens the door. The stink of blood intensifies even before he's got the door fully open, and it gets worse once he steps inside.

There are normally four beds into this infirmary, but the furniture has been rearranged to double the occupancy. He looks around hoping to find Pamela, but they're all bandaged to the gills and it's hard to tell who's who. "Missouri," he calls, spotting her talking to another person. "Do you know where—"

He stops as Missouri stops talking and her companion turns to look inquiringly at Dean. "What the hell are you doing here?" Dean demands, surprised by the roughness of his voice. "Missouri, why'd you let him in?"

Castiel glances at him briefly before turning back to the epad in his hands. The angel seems be just as off-balance as Dean, as he fumbles the epad for a moment before setting it down. "He wanted to help," Missouri says with a frown, looking between the two of them. "Is that a problem, Dean?"

"Help? What the hell?" Dean snaps. "Can't you have the decency to leave them alone, you son of a bitch?" he demands, taking a step towards Castiel.

"Language, Dean!" Missouri chides, crossing her arms.

"I don't often walk amongst the dead and dying," Castiel says, meeting Dean's glare. "It's—" he takes a deep breath. "Strange."

"So now they're your own personal freakshow, is that it?" Dean snaps.

Castiel tilts his head as if he doesn't quite understand, but there's no time to figure it out as Missouri grabs him firmly by the shoulder. Dean stifles a yelp as her hand grips just above the soaked bandage and pulls him out the door. "Dean, what's going on?" she asks as the door closes behind them. "What's really bothering you?"

"What the—nothing's bothering me, Missouri," Dean says, fumbling under her steady gaze. "I'm just—look, he's not like Anna, okay? Anna was one of us, and she would've died—did die for us. Castiel…he's an _angel_. You can't just let him wander around like that."

Missouri raises an eyebrow. "He's not wandering around. We need all the hands we can get, Dean. You know that perfectly well."

"It's just—an _angel_—" Dean sputters, feeling hot under the collar of his shirt. "I didn't—Missouri, that's not fair."

The last sentence comes out far more desperate that he intends to be._ Fuck._ He never meant to whine about this shit, but now he's complaining about it to everyone who comes his way—Castiel. Bobby. And now, Missouri. Next thing you know, he's going to have a public breakdown in the middle of the cafeteria and start—no, wait, he already did that. Shit.

Missouri sighs. Dean hastily holds up a hand to forestall her reaction. "Look, Missouri, I know, okay? We're doing our best to get Sam, there's a job to do, so on and so forth. I get it. I'll get it done. I—I just wish that the angels would go away to wherever they came from. Life's a whole less complicated without them."

Wishes? Wishes don't count for anything, soldier. Stop daydreaming and keep your focus on the goal.

Yes, sir. Right away, sir.

"Sometimes I think we're as bad as the Republic," Missouri says. Her voice is soft, almost drowned by the buzzing in Dean's ears. "Angel, demon, human—we all come from the same stock, Dean. Every one of us should have a chance to choose who we want to be, even Castiel."

"We can't choose who we are," Dean manages through gritted teeth.

"We can't control the circumstances that chance throws to us. What we can do is to choose what we want to do with them," Missouri corrects gently. She studies him for a moment, her eyes softening. Dean turns away from her, unable to stand the look in her eyes. "Dean, you're not a bad person."

A good man would've been able to resist Hell. A good man would've been able to save Sam, Victor, Gwen, Anna, the countless others who've died at the hands of the angels. A good man would've returned Castiel to the Republic—no, wait. He would've—_tortured him? ignored him? let the strangers beat him up? pumped him full of Croat to get through detox?_

There's no easy ending to that sentence.

"Dean."

Slowly, Dean forces himself to look at her. "Missouri—" he begins before trailing off into miserable silence. "I'm just tired," he says finally. "I'll…I'll work it out. Tomorrow." He gives a tired laugh. "I might even apologize to Castiel, but only if I'm in a really good mood."

Missouri frowns. "You look more than tired, Dean." She brushes a hand against his forehead, and her frown deepens. "You're burning up!"

"No, I'm not," Dean protests, but it goes unheard.

Missouri pulls him back into infirmary four. Castiel looks up from changing a bandage as they enter, and she gestures at him impatiently. "Get me a thermometer," she orders. Castiel retrieves one and hands it to her, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. "Open," Missouri says to Dean, and as he obeys, she pops the thermometer into his mouth. It beeps a second later, and she studies the reading for a moment before giving Dean an exasperated look. "101 degrees," she announces. "You definitely have a fever."

"His shoulder is injured," Castiel says from behind her, and Dean gives him an indignant glare. Traitor. Not that he expected anything else from an _angel_. "The bandage needs changing."

"Didn't stop you from slamming me into the wall," Dean mutters as Missouri peels back the sleeve of his shirt. "Son of a—ow!" he hisses as his shirt snags on part of the bandage. Missouri's eyes widen as she regards the red stains soaking through the previously white fabric. She looks up at him accusingly, and he winces. "Missouri—"

"Don't you 'Missouri' me!" she snaps with surprising energy. "You're on bedrest for the next few days, you understand? If you're running a fever, that means that—I knew it," she says as she peels away the bandage. "Hang on, I'll get you some antibiotics."

"Missouri," he tries again, but she ignores him, moving off to pull something out of a cabinet on the wall. Dean's acutely aware of Castiel's eyes lingering on the oozing slice in his shoulder, and of the tentative hand Castiel raises to touch it. "What?" he demands as Castiel's fingers hover lightly over the wound, inches away from the bare skin. "Your dick buddies did this, you know."

"A wing cut," Castiel murmurs. "The serrated edge has a distinct pattern."

"No shit, Sherlock," Dean says. Castiel looks up at him, a small frown crossing his face. "What?"

"Gabriel…" Castiel says, sounding distant. "Does he still have his wings, or were they confiscated like mine?"

Dean frowns. "He's still got them. Keeps them in his room, I think. Why do you ask?"

Castiel opens his mouth as if he's going to speak, but as Missouri walks over holding a needle full of yellow gunk, he closes his mouth again. "This might sting a bit," she says, and that's all the warning Dean gets before she stabs the needle into the crease of his elbow. "It'll help with the infection, but you're still confined to bed, you hear?" She unrolls a length of bandage and briskly begins to dress the wound.

"Wait. What do you know about Gabriel?" Dean persist, batting Missouri aside to get to Castiel. "What's his wings got to do with it?"

Castiel looks back at him. His eyes flicker away for the briefest of moments, and then he says, "You need to rest."

"I'll rest later!" Dean shouts. "Damn it, Castiel, what aren't you telling me?"

The other patients stir at the sound, and Missouri shoots him an irritated look. Castiel places a hand on her shoulder, and she turns to look at him. "Perhaps he would rest better in his own room," Castiel says. "It's quieter there."

Missouri frowns. "He needs to sleep. A proper sleep, without running around."

"I'll ensure it," Castiel says.

"What the—no!" Dean protests. "I can take care of myself, Missouri, I'm not eight!"

"When it comes to staying still, Dean, you might as well be. Fine. He's your responsibility now," Missouri says to Castiel. "Sit on him if you have to, as long as he stays in bed. He needs to have that shoulder redressed tomorrow, and if the infection's bad enough he'll need another injection—"

"I'll take care of it," Castiel says, looking steadily back at Dean's accusing stare. "I owe him."

Missouri pauses. "Okay then. I'll take that at face value and not as a vaguely ominous sign. Dean, try not to kill yourself." Her hand falls on his uninjured shoulder and squeezes lightly. "You don't have to carry all the world's burdens on your shoulders, you know."

((()))

Dean waits until they get to his room. He even sits down onto the bed like a good little patient, waiting for Castiel to close the door and draw nearer. As the angel comes close, Dean uses every iota of his strength and slams Castiel back into the wall, their faces inches apart. "Tell me what you know," Dean breathes. "Why are the wings so important?" He shakes Castiel. "Tell me!"

Castiel could easily throw him off if the morning's fight is any indication, but he doesn't. He stays still under Dean's hold, not even blinking as he meets Dean's glare with clear blue eyes. "You're not—"

"If you say that I'm not rational, so help me, busted shoulder or not I will kick your ass!" Dean growls. "Damn it, Cas, what aren't you telling me?"

The tension draws out for a long, slow moment. "If his wings are gone, then Gabriel is gone as well," Castiel says quietly.

"What?" Dean asks. "What do you mean?" There's a roaring in his ears that's slowly growing louder.

"We don't leave our wings behind," Castiel says simply.

"You don't know that. The bastard's been Fallen for years," Dean says, fighting to keep his breathing steady. "He might've just put his wings elsewhere. Or maybe he chucked them out years ago because they got rusty—"

"Wingsteel doesn't rust."

"Or maybe he's out for a joyride. Or maybe he melted them down and sold them for candy. You don't know that. You don't know where he is, you son of a bitch, you're lying—"

"Why would I lie?" Castiel asks, and now he's pushing back, slowly but firmly backing Dean towards the bed. "I have no reason to defend Gabriel."

"He's your brother," Dean says, and damn it, he's all but hyperventilating, something clawing at his chest in a desperate attempt to break free. "I'd do anything for my brother—lie for him, die for him—" go to Hell for him— "and you're an angel, you'd do anything for your stupid fucking Father—"

"He's gone, Dean."

The words are like a knife stabbing into his chest. "Shut up," Dean manages through clenched teeth. "Damn you, stop talking, shut your fucking mouth, you don't know what you're saying—fucking _angel_, go to _hell_—"

He'd tear the world apart for Sam, starting with this angel.

But Castiel's stronger than he looks, pinning Dean to the bed despite his thrashing and fighting. Dean tries all his tricks in a desperate attempt to break free, but Castiel holds him firmly, unmoved by his struggles. "Fuck you!" Dean hisses, ignoring the stabs of pain as he kicks out wildly at Castiel. "Let me _go_, you asshole, or I'll fucking rip your guts out—"

But the threat doesn't work any better than it did this morning. Castiel's breathing remains calm and steady, his eyes refusing to give an inch of leeway. "Dean," he says as Dean finally runs out of breath to curse him with and is frantically sucking in gulps of air despite the pain. Dean wearily drags his eyes up to look at him, the stupid infuriating angel who's a hell of a lot stronger than he seems. "Stop this," Castiel says softly, and Dean finds himself unconsciously obeying the order as his muscles fall limp against his will.

Castiel's hand moves up to curl around Dean's, interlacing their fingers together. Dean grips back tightly, taking the offered anchor with a terrible urgency. Fucking _angels_, Castiel has no right to do this, why can't he just go to hell and leave Dean _alone_, damn it—

"Because I owe you," Castiel says into his ear, and the sentence takes on a whole new meaning. "You'll self-destruct if you keep this up, Dean. Don't try to deny it."

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Dean wheezes. "You have to right to dictate my life to me—"

Something nudges at the corner of Castiel's mouth, the tiniest hint of a smile. "I'm an angel of the Lord," Castiel says, straight-faced. "And we are generally the dictating kind."

It's enough to give Dean pause as he stares in confusion. "Since when did you get a sense of humor?" he demands when he's got enough breath to demand. "You know, I think I liked you better when you were a comatose vegetable."

"I didn't think you liked me at all," Castiel says. "Not that we function to be liked. Popularity is hardly part of an angel's duties."

"Good thing, because I hate your guts," Dean retorts.

For just a second, something flashes across Castiel's face, something eerily close to pain. It's gone in the next instant as Castiel says calmly, "Then I'll just have to live with it."

"Don't hold your breath," Dean mutters.

There's silence for a moment. Castiel shifts his weight slightly so that he's not pressing on Dean's injured chest, but otherwise he makes no move to get up. His face is inches from Dean's, and the stare is even more unnerving up close. Dean forces himself to glare back, determined not to lose to the angel. Even if he already has.

"Tell me about Sam," Castiel says finally. His voice is a bare whisper, but this close, Dean catches it clear as day. "What sort of brother was he?"

"One that you've got no right talking about," Dean snaps, but there's no real force to it. His chest and shoulder _hurt_, he's pinned down to the bed by a fucking angel-of-the-Lord, he's exhausted, and hell if he's got energy left to fight.

"My brothers will have abandoned me already," Castiel says quietly, not looking away. "We do not mourn in the Host. When Anael Fell, I took her place, Uriel took mine, and Arel was added to complete the quartet. Rachel probably commands in my place now." He takes a breath, so close that it almost seems as if he and Dean are sharing the same air. "Above all, we are loyal to the Host, not to each other."

"Not my problem," Dean says, hating the way something twists inside him in reaction to Castiel's words. Honestly, it does sound like a pretty shitty life—being one gear in the machine, easily replaced if you fall out. "You're an angel, and that's your shit, not mine."

"We don't have a choice in who we are," Castiel says, and damn if that isn't déjà vu of Dean's argument with Missouri. "When Anael left us, I thought…I thought she betrayed us. Her name was struck from the rolls, and she was condemned to the Nest of Love. I thought she was as bad as a demon."

Dean weighs this. There's an unspoken question in Castiel's voice, one that Dean grudgingly chooses to answer. "She wasn't," he says at last. "As bad as a demon, I mean. She was…she was great. Smart, brave, didn't stand for the demons' shit. They hated her, but they hate everyone, so that's okay. You could trust her in a fight, trust her to keep your back safe and blow the hell out of the bastards in the sky." Castiel doesn't seem offended, but Dean winces anyway. "You know what I mean."

"No one can kill an angel except another angel," Castiel murmurs. "Uriel used to say that."

Dean snorts. "Well, your buddy Uriel is a big fat liar. I've killed a few in my time." He tenses, remembering who he's talking to. "Doesn't that bother you?" he asks when Castiel doesn't react. "Or do you just write it off?"

"We don't…write it off," Castiel says, speaking the words slowly as if he's never heard them before. "We adjust accordingly. Weaknesses should be corrected to prevent further incidents."

"And how does that line of angelspeak work out in real life?" Dean asks.

Castiel hesitates, and Dean can see uncertainly cross his face. "We do what we must," he says at last. It's not an answer of any kind, but Castiel doesn't seem willing to provide another one. It actually sounds kind of ominous when Dean thinks about it some more. Dean studies Castiel's eyes and gets the feeling that even though Castiel's looking straight at him, he's not actually seeing him.

"Hey," Dean says, more to get Castiel's attention than anything else. Castiel's eyes focus at the words, and Dean winces at the renewed intensity. "Anna, she, uh. She did good work, okay? She…I don't know if you give a shit about this stuff, but she was a good person."

"Is that valid, coming from a human?" Castiel asks dryly.

"A compliment about an angel coming from a human? Well, yeah. I could go on and on about how angels suck, but there are only a few that I think are okay."

Castiel huffs softly. "A few?"

Dean pauses and reviews his words. Shit, messed that one up. "One. One angel that I think is okay." He twists in Castiel's grip. "Don't get any ideas."

"We're not trained for creativity," Castiel says. It sounds outwardly calm, but Castiel's eyes give him away. They flicker away from Dean's face, studying their clasped hands. Lightly, Castiel draws his thumb over Dean's palm, and Dean fights to ignore the frisson of heat from the light touch.

"What're you doing?" he says, trying to keep his voice calm.

"Tell me about Sam," Castiel says softly. What is it like to have a brother?"

"Don't you have a ton of them?" Dean says distractedly, watching Castiel's hand. "Why do you care so much about Sam, anyway?" He sucks in a deep breath, heedless of the pain in his chest as Castiel's fingers press gently on the needle mark in the crease of his elbow. "Damn it, Cas—"

"I spent my whole life in the Host," Castiel says. "The Father—"

"—who may or may not exist—" Dean interjects.

"I have to believe He's real," Castiel says bleakly. "Because if He's not, I've spent my whole life serving a lie. I have nothing else."

Dean's eyes snap back to Castiel's face. Despite the clear pain in Castiel's voice, his face is filled with a studied intensity that doesn't match his voice as all. "Well, at least you realized it sooner rather than later?" Dean tries. "You're an angel, but that doesn't mean you have to be a dick your whole life."

Castiel looks back at him, his fingers stilling. "We don't have connections, Dean. No relationships. We have masters to serve—the Father, the Host. That's all."

"That's what you _had_. You've already told the Host to go fuck itself by Falling. Stop whining and find yourself something new," Dean says, and damn, that's kind of ironic coming from him considering just how much whining he's done today, but what the hell. Castiel's hand spreads out over the bandage on his shoulder, and Dean finds himself breathing in short, rapid breaths, trying to decide whether to twist away or to stay still. "So you're an angel, boo hoo. That doesn't mean that you're stuck kissing the Father's ass for the rest of your life."

"I would think that you almost care," Castiel says quietly.

"I don't," Dean insists, "but you're lying on top of me and it's kind of hard to ignore you."

"My task is to make sure that you rest."

"I'm sure as hell not resting now," Dean mumbles, distracted from any real ire by the fact that Castiel's hand has moved up to cup his cheek, and Castiel's running his thumb over Dean's day-old stubble. "I'll kick your ass the second I get up."

Castiel raises an eyebrow. "That does not motivate me to let you up."

"Fuck your logic," Dean grumbles half-heartedly. Involuntarily, his eyes flutter shut to the soft movements of Castiel's hand. "Stupid fucking angel—"

His curse is muffled as Castiel leans forward and very gently presses his lips to Dean's. Dean's brain short-circuits for a moment, and he's unable to do more than blink helplessly and yes, kiss back. By the time he's got his bearings Castiel has already pulled back, his eyes wary.

"What the…" Dean manages weakly. "What the _hell?_"

"Did I do it wrong?"

"_Do_ it _wrong_?" Dean sputters. "Do it—_do it_—Cas, what the fuck was that? You're not supposed to do it at all!"

"I once saw two humans fight to do this one last time," Castiel says. "Does it have some great significance?"

"Significance," Dean says, and now he's laughing, aching chest be damned, because it's either laugh or cry at this point. "You just kissed me, you stupid idiot. People don't—they don't _kiss_ each other—I mean, _you_ don't kiss _me, _because that's just—that's just—"

"Just what?"

Dean sucks in a breath. "It's weird," he manages. "You're an angel. I'm human. And I don't even like you, and you can only kiss people that you like." He closes his eyes as an image of Alistair rises behind his eyelids, and he forces himself to push the memories of Hell away. "I mean, you should."

"Was it that unpleasant?"

Dean laughs again, hard enough that this time, he can't ignore the sharp jabs of pain from his chest. "Ow," he wheezes, clutching at his chest ineffectually. "Damn it, that hurts—"

Castiel rolls off of Dean in an abrupt movement, landing neatly on the other side of the bed. Dean pushes himself onto his elbows, wincing as his body protests. "Wait, Cas," he says.

Castiel holds up a hand to forestall his protests. "You're injured," he says, pushing Dean down firmly. "You need to rest. I shouldn't have pushed you so far."

"Wimp," Dean mutters, but it's true that fatigue is starting to set in now that the adrenaline's wearing off. "You can't just kiss a guy and then run away."

"I'm not running," Castiel says, stupid logical angel that he is. "I was tasked to ensure that you rest, and I will fulfill that order."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "I never knew you were so conscientious."

"You don't know a lot about angels at all," Castiel says, which is true enough that it shuts Dean up. "And if you wish to have the energy to inquire further, you need to recover first."

Which is angelspeak for shut up and go to sleep, obviously.

"We need to talk about this in the morning," Dean says as Castiel settles into the hard-backed chair next to the bed. "We're not done."

"I know," Castiel says simply.

Dean turns his back on Castiel, concentrating on taking slow, steady breaths. Castiel's quiet enough behind him that for a moment or two Dean wonders if he's somehow evaporated. The air feels thick, and damn it, it's too _quiet_. You wouldn't know that two people (well, one person and one angel) were in the room.

"That chair's got to be fucking uncomfortable," Dean mutters into his pillow. "Tell me—are angels masochists?"

There's a calculating pause. "When required. Yes."

"Stop acting like a martyr, you idiot. I'm already masochistic enough for the both of us."

There's an even longer pause, and then Dean jumps at the light touch on his back. He moves to make way for Castiel, determinedly _not thinking_ about what he's doing. He doesn't know if he likes Castiel or loathes him, or whether he wants to kill him or kiss him. All Dean knows is that sleeping in a chair is a recipe for backache and take it from him, backaches _suck_.

"Snore and I'll strangle you in your sleep," Dean announces in concession to the last of the doubts. "Kick me, ditto."

Castiel's hand shifts slightly to rest around his shoulder, cupping the wound gently. "Sleep," he says, and it sounds like an order.

Dean doesn't take orders from angels. He does what he wants to, and that's why he closes his eyes, letting Castiel's soft breathing against his neck carry him away to sleep.

((()))

_4.1: Dean_

"Today, we gather to remember the dead, those who have died to save us. We honor them for the sacrifice, and we thank them for the blood they have spilled on our behalf: Rory Moore, Jerry Tyson, Elissa Thomas, Gwen Campbell, Victor Henrikson…"

The funerals take place a week after the destruction of sector four, and the list of the names doesn't stop, not for a long, long time. Dean knows every single person from sector two on the list, and at least half of the others. The final tally of the dead goes just over a thousand people—most of them are sector four's own people, but about a hundred of those come from sector two as well. Not included in the numbers are those who have been gravely injured and might never hunt again, like Pamela. All Dean can do is to hold out hope that he will never have to hear Sam's name in such a setting.

Castiel doesn't come to the funeral, which is probably a good thing.

((()))

In the daytime, Dean keeps busy. It's hard to focus on his own troubles when more immediate ones like the bleeding wounds from shrapnel or smoke-injured lungs are right in front of him. He's not on active duty and probably won't be until Missouri gives the all-okay, but still, he's up on his feet after a day or so and able to move around. Besides, he doesn't have to do heavy lifting to help Bobby plan the new layer of defenses; they need to protect the compound now more than ever before since the fall of sector four. Castiel keeps busy as well: he's been roped into helping Dr. Robert and Ash with their Croat/Grace experiments and their attempts to develop a more graduated detox program, something that Dean wholeheartedly supports.

He only wishes that it hadn't come too late for Sam. But when Sam comes back—

_If_ Sam comes back.

(No, when. _When_. Stay positive, Dean.)

((()))

It's not until the fifty-day mark of Sam's capture that it finally hits Dean that maybe, just maybe, Sam might be dead. He's thought it before in brief moments of despair, always forcing himself to push the thought away. When he crosses off the fiftieth day with no news, though, Dean finally allows himself to reflect on the possibility.

"He's dead, isn't he?" he says out loud into the quiet of the room. "I mean…people don't come out of the Nest of Love alive, do they? At least not in one piece."

Beside him, Castiel stirs, his arm tightening over Dean's chest. "I'm sorry."

"Have you ever been in the Nest of Love?" Dean whispers, letting Castiel hold him still. "Do you know what they do to them there?"

"I've sent people there before," Castiel says softly. "Not many. The Nest of Love is for…special cases."

"And Sam's special," Dean mutters, half-laugh, half-sob. "I always knew his big brain would get him into trouble someday."

Acknowledging it hurts like hell. Something inside of Dean bursts open, and Dean finally gives way to tears, holding onto Castiel like he's the only one still tying Dean to this shitstorm of a world. Castiel doesn't say anything like _it'll be okay_ or _I'm sure Sam's fine_ or _don't give up hope_, because one thing the angels suck at is giving meaningless platitudes. He just holds Dean and lets him cry in the privacy of their room and the grief run its course. Dean lets himself go, because he knows that Castiel will never say anything a word to anyone else about Dean's breakdown.

The angel keeps his secrets tightly, and shared ones even tighter.

((()))

"Keep on doing your therapy exercises," Missouri orders, pointing the pen into his face. Dean grimaces and obediently squeezes the ball in his hand; it's supposed to strengthen his arm muscles or something. "No running around. No hard exercise. And definitely no hunting or patrol, not for another week. We need you to recover fully before you go around doing zeppelin dives."

"Cheers, Missouri," Dean grumbles.

"Don't 'cheers' me," Missouri says, but her eyes belie the sternness of her tone. "Well, you look well enough. Nothing important missing, anyway."

"So I'm discharged?"

"Don't overexert yourself," Missouri says absently, writing something down. He waits, and it takes a moment or two before she looks back up at him with a quizzical expression. "What're you still waiting for? Yes, you're discharged."

"Freedom has never looked so fine, and neither have you," Dean tells her as he hops off the examination bed, setting the ball back onto the table. "You're all heart, Missouri."

"Don't let it get to your head," Missouri tells him. As he heads for the door, she adds, "Castiel should be in the lab, if you're looking for him."

Dean grunts. He knows full well where Castiel's been; the angel's been missing all night but to be honest, there are only a few places he would go. The 'lab' is two floors up and actually a converted office, and it hardly seems to big enough to hold the masses of equipment inside. It's high enough that it's actually got a window to the outside air, but even with that and a fan it doesn't seem to be doing much good in getting rid of the hot, smoky air.

Dean slides through the door and closes it quietly behind him. He spots Castiel bent over a slide on the table, his eyes intent as he tracks something in the glass. Dean watches for a moment from behind a desk, half-hidden by an array of glass tubes. Castiel shifts slightly and Dean knows in that instant that Castiel knows that he's there, but neither of them make any acknowledgement of the other.

Dr. Robert's voice is the one that breaks the stand-off. "Dean!" he says, and then a hand claps down on Dean's shoulder. "What're you skulking back here for?"

"Hey, Dr. Robert," Dean says, trying to suppress an instinctive wince. He's never liked Dr. Robert, which really makes no sense because the man's never been anything other than perfectly professional. Castiel finally looks up, his eyes flickering briefly over them before turning back to the slide. "Just got discharged from Missouri."

"Good, good," Dr. Robert says. "We need more hunters in the fields."

"Yeah," Dean says, the awkwardness fading away as he's reminded of the situation. The resistance—or the loose group of free humans that like to style themselves as a resistance—has never been particularly strong, nor the ranks of the hunters particularly large. "Missouri's probably going to kill me if she finds out, but I'm going to sign up for barricade duty later, probably."

"Singer's in charge of that, isn't he?" Dr. Robert asks, and Dean nods. "Well, I suppose it's easier than all-out evacuation, but it seems like we're sitting ducks while the angels play around in four."

"Evacuation's not very practical," Dean says, watching the fine rigidity of Castiel's stance. "If we abandon the compounds here, we've got no place to go."

"Hmm. Well, we'll just have to hope that a couple dozen extra artillery cannons are enough," Dr. Robert says, turning away. Dean opens his mouth to defend the council's decisions but decides against it. Evacuation's a popular opinion, but those who advocate it have no idea just how fucking hard it'll be out there. No, best to stay put. Dean closes his mouth and watches as Dr. Robert steps up alongside Castiel. "How's it going?" the older man asks genially. He doesn't wait for a response as he deftly picks up the slide and puts it under a microscope, leaning over to examine it.

Castiel moves out of the way. He stands just a pace behind Dr. Robert, his back military-straight. It's been an uphill process, but Dean's learning how to decode him: when Castiel stands like a freaking statue, it means that he's feeling uncomfortable or defensive. Then again, that's his standard mode of operation pretty much 24/7, so Dean doesn't really know if this observation is worth much.

As Dr. Roberts fumbles with a stack of precariously piled books, Dean sidles over to Castiel's side. The angel finally turns and looks at him directly, and Dean wonders if the lines of his face soften just slightly when Castiel meets his gaze. "What did Missouri say?" Castiel says after a quick, sweeping look that somehow manages to make Dean feel like all his secrets have been spilled.

"Discharged. I'm going onto the patrol rosters tomorrow," Dean answers. "How's it going?"

Castiel looks back at Dr. Robert. "Not well," he says, and it's amazing just how ominous those two words can be. He doesn't say anything more, and Dean doesn't bother supplying meaningless words to fill the silence. It's somehow not awkward, but it's not exactly comfortable, either.

And that about sums up his...well, for lack of a better word, his _association_ with Castiel. Nobody knows where the hell Gabriel's pissed off to, and since then the whole angel issue (more specifically, the whole Castiel issue) has fallen onto Dean's shoulders. They share a room, even a bed. The situation would've raised eyebrows in normal circumstances, but with the fall of sector four, no one gives a shit, which is just the way Dean wants it. And to be honest, they're not actually doing anything that would warrant gossip, anyway. Dean doesn't know what he has with Castiel, but it's not as easily labeled as the gossipmongers would make out.

"Well, Castiel," Dr. Robert says finally as he straightens up, "I think we can write this off as a resounding failure." The disappointment in his voice is palpable, but Castiel doesn't move a muscle. "After all, there's no use in detox if the result is degenerated neurons in the brain." Robert gives a little sigh. "You've been up all night, haven't you? You might as well get some rest," he says, looking at Castiel. "I'll see you bright and early tomorrow?"

"Yes," Castiel says before heading out the door. Dean follows him at a slower pace, turning back to look at Dr. Robert, who's gone back to tinkering with his toys again.

"So," Dean says once they're out of the smoky room and in the hall again. "You going to save the world anytime soon?"

"I think all hope for that is long gone," Castiel says mildly. The lines of exhaustion are clear in his face, but he seems a little more relaxed now that he's alone with Dean. "But Dr. Robert is adequate for a human, especially since he was trained in the Nest of Purity."

"Yeah, I've always wondered why he left the Nest of Purity in the first place," Dean says. "I mean, he's not exactly like the rest of us common people, is he? He's a freaking doctor. Don't they have special rights for them or something?"

"Allowances are made for the Chosen," Castiel says. "But any citizen may ascend to the halls of higher learning, although it's admittedly rare for the 'common people,' as you say." He looks contemplative for a moment and then shakes his head. "At any rate, quibbling over these things is irrelevant. We each do what we have to do."

"Sounds like a ruthless way to live life. Tab A into Slot B, everyone just a cog in the machine," Dean comments.

Castiel shoots him a sideways look. "I _am_ an angel," he says.

"How could I forget?" Dean mutters, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Reminded of it every damn day. I don't know, man. There's nothing physically different between humans and angels, I'll give you that, but it's just the way you move. Like you've got a stick up your ass. Like you're up for military inspection any minute."

Castiel shrugs. "Discipline has its rewards," he says. "Perhaps the hunters could use a little more."

"Yeah, or maybe you could use a little less," Dean retorts. "You know, loosen up a little. Hey, what do angels do for fun?"

"Fun?" Castiel says slowly, tasting the word like it's some new delicacy. "Diversion or entertainment?"

"Yes, Mr. Thesaurus," Dean tells him, amused despite himself. "Big new concept to you, huh? C'mon. What do angels do in their free time? Gabriel was a useless jerk, but he did know how to party, I'll give him that. Guy had more chocolate than anyone else in the compound. I've always wondered how he managed to get his hands on it all."

Castiel looks at him solemnly. "I can assure you that chocolate is not involved in angel fun."

"Yeah, I get that," Dean tells him. "So, come on. They couldn't keep you training all the time, could they? Or…" he trails off as Castiel stares back at him. "They did?"

Castiel doesn't answer for a moment. Finally: "Do _you_ remember the Nest of Joy?" he asks instead.

Dean frowns at the mention of the nest responsible for child-rearing and procreation. "Dad left when I was eight, man, and it was a long time ago." He bites his lip, searching his mind for the shadowy memories of pre-detox life. "I...not really, Cas, sorry. But like I said, it was a long time ago."

"Your mother died when you were four," Castiel says suddenly. "I read it in your file."

"Dude, that's so not fair," Dean mutters. "You get an insider's peek at my life and I don't know shit about you. Look, can we not talk about this?"

"Do you remember her?" Castiel asks, ignoring him.

Dean looks sharply at Castiel. It's a waste of time; Castiel's got his poker face on, and Dean might as well be trying to climb a sheer cliff. "Why do you care?" he asks instead of answering, determined to be just as unrevealing. "You really don't have to try to psychoanalyze me, dude, because you kind of suck at it." Castiel continues to watch him with that steady, unnerving gaze. Dean sighs and swipes a hand across his forehead. "No, okay? I don't. Not really. I have this…I remember fire for some reason. Sort of. But I don't know how or why or what, and Dad never talked about her anyway. So no, I don't. Now drop it, all right?"

Castiel looks displeased, but he does drop the subject, which is enough for Dean. They walk along the corridor heading back to their room, but Dean's feeling…edgy. Restless. It's been a long time since he's thought of Mary Winchester, but that touches too close to…well, to _Sam_. Dean casts his mind about, searching for some other, safer topic. "You know, you never answered my question," he says finally as Castiel remains silent.

"What question?"

"The fun question. Well, all my questions are fun, but this one more than most. Seriously, do you guys make a point of looking stern and broody all the time? Your face is going to get stuck that way. If it isn't already, I mean."

"There's nothing wrong with my face," Castiel says even as the crease in his forehead deepens. Despite himself, Dean grins a little as he sees it. "It's not important, anyway. I thought you were going to sign up for barricade duty?"

Dean pauses. "Yeah," he says, feeling something sink in his stomach even as he says the words. He looks at Castiel—moody, broody Castiel with that half-irritated, half-exhausted look on his face. "I told Bobby I'd report as soon as I got discharged. World to save and all that."

"And I believe that if I go any longer, I may collapse," Castiel remarks a little dryly as they come to a halt in front of their door. "I need to sleep."

"Yeah, and a shower," Dean agrees. "You do look like shit."

"Yes, you've told me that many times." Castiel gives a very human sigh and for just a moment, sways slightly on his feet. Dean grips his shoulder and holds him fast, preventing him from falling over.

"Dude, you're going to fuck up your sleeping schedule if you do that," Dean tells him. "Just take a nap or something, or else you're going to be up all night again."

"I'll risk it," Castiel says, the corner of his mouth twitching just a little bit.

"I thought angels didn't risk," Dean points out. "Never go in without a plan, storm them all and be back at the Nest of Peace in time for dinner. Long live the angel way."

"Yes, well, you constantly remind me that I should stop being an angel," Castiel says, and Dean can hear the yawn building. "I worry about it terribly, I assure you."

Dean raises an eyebrow, impressed despite himself. "Was that sarcasm? You're a fast learner."

"Go away, Dean," Castiel says. His voice is low and commanding, but Dean swears that he can see just a hint of amusement in his eyes. "I'll see you tonight."

It's not really a question. Dean watches as Castiel unlocks their door and stumbles his way inside, dropping even more of the angel rigidity in the privacy of their room. Smiling slightly, Dean closes the door behind him and heads out to report to Bobby in SR.

Bobby's not there when Dean arrives, but Rufus is. "Hey," Dean says. "Well, I'm in one piece and Missouri's nowhere in sight, so I guess I'm ready to go back on patrol."

Rufus raises an eyebrow as he looks Dean up and down. "Nothing falling off?"

"I'll just sew it back on," Dean says with a casual shrug, and Rufus grins. "C'mon, Rufus. I'm sick of planning demolitions. Let me go and set some mines instead of just watching them on paper."

"Well," Rufus says, "Bobby's been itching for more hunters, so I guess you're good to go. He's in the Plaza, if you're looking for him."

"Thanks a million, Rufus," Dean says, slapping him on the shoulder before leaving the room. The Plaza's a courtyard that's semi-open to the air. It's vulnerable to angels from the sky, but any angel who tries landing in there will get their wings blasted out of their ears by a rain of grenades. Dean can see Bobby as he heads out onto the bumpy cobblestones, the rim of Bobby's cap jerking up and down as he argues with someone—Risa. "What's up?" Dean asks as he draws closer.

Risa whirls onto him. "Stay out of this, Winchester," she snaps. "Mind your own freaking business."

Dean holds up his hands. "Hell, don't screw me over for things I haven't even done yet, Risa. What's going on?"

"Nothing," Bobby says briskly. "Risa, tell Roy that if he don't shape up, you have permission to kick his ass into the holding cells, all right?"

"About damn time," Risa says. She gives Dean a sharp nod and leaves the scene.

Dean watches her go and turns back to look at Bobby quizzically. Bobby shakes his head and says by way of explanation, "Roy's a damned idjit, end of story."

"Oookay," Dean says. "Fine by me." He claps his hands together. "I'm ready for duty, captain sir. Where can I get started."

Bobby frowns. "Missouri cleared you?"

"Yep," Dean says.

"You sure you're ready?" Bobby asks.

Dean frowns. "What's with the questions? Yeah, Bobby, I am."

Bobby sighs. "A month ain't near enough time to get over Sam," he says, his voice quiet. "I loved that boy like he was my own son, you know that. I ain't over it, and hell, you two were as thick as thieves." He shakes his head. "We need men, but not that bad."

Dean forces himself to stay calm at the sound of Sam's name. "I need something to do," he says, trying to keep his voice level. "Don't make me stay in SR, Bobby. I've got Missouri's clearance, I'm ready, and if I just sit around I'll fucking claw someone's eyes out."

"We can't fight the angels on sector four," Bobby says. "They've got it and ain't letting go. We ain't out for vengeance here, you hear? We're here to protect who's left."

"I got it," Dean says through gritted teeth. "Damn you, Bobby, I don't need the goddamn lecture. I've been planning this shit for the past couple weeks, remember?"

"Hell of a difference between paper and patrol," Bobby says. "Sure you can keep yourself together?"

Dean takes a deep breath, and then another one before he finally speaks. "Yeah, Bobby. I'm sure."

The skeptical expression doesn't leave Bobby's face, but Dean knows well that Bobby's been hurting for hunters, no matter how much he claims otherwise. "Fine," he says at last, resigned. "But you have a nervous breakdown in the field and I'll let Missouri drug you to the gills."

"You're all heart," Dean tells him. He relaxes a little as the conversation wanders out of dangerous territory. "So. Where do you want me?"

Bobby gives him directions, which Dean obediently follows. Dean recognizes the other hunters in his shift in only a very vague way, and the unfamiliarity sweeps over him in a crushing wave of grief at the loss of his old team. He bites the inside of his cheek and forces himself to ride it out, determined not to have a Moment in front of relative strangers. Thankfully, they either don't notice or pretend not to.

Following Bobby's plans, they set to work laying mines by the northeast entrance. It's a hot day, and there are few buildings around to provide shelter. There are piles of trash, though, and the smell is overwhelming as the heat grows stronger. Dean brushes away the flies but otherwise savors the heat and the strain in his muscles. It's a reminder that he's alive. That maybe there's something worth living for.

He doesn't stop until the bell that signals lunch break, but the packaged sandwiches are a welcome sight. Dean takes his and retreats to a shady corner, letting the hot breeze sweep over the back of his neck. He chews listlessly, letting the stilted conversation of the other hunters flow over him. Probably too much time spent with a socially inept angel has changed him, because he doesn't feel like joining in the other hunters' talk. It's not just him, though, as the others fall silent one by one as well.

The afternoon patrol leaves to sweep the perimeter shortly after lunch, and they get back to work. Afternoon shift is pretty much the same—work, punctuated by brief conversations. Dean doesn't expect much more than that, and the monotony is soothing. The whistle announcing the approach of afternoon patrol startles Dean out of a listless reverie, and he looks up to see the truck approaching the gates. "Martin!" Olivia Lowry yells as she hops out of the driver's seat. "We got some refugees in here!"

Dean's head snaps up, and he can see the others react with a similar frisson of surprise. Refugees from the ass-end of nowhere. Theoretically, he supposes it's possible: when they evacuated sector four, they did it in such a damn rush it's possible they'd leave someone behind. But after so long…who could possibly survive in the ruins after so much time?

Dean hangs back as the gate swings open, and he watches as Olivia lowers the window and has a short, heated conversation with Martin. "Take them to the infirmary," Martin orders Olivia, who gives a sharp nod and starts driving the truck into the compound proper. Martin looks around, suddenly becoming aware of their audience. "The rest of you, get back to work!" he says in response to the curious looks they give him.

Dean shrugs and puts them out his mind. He's got greater things to worry about, anyhow. He's flagging a little—seems like he's not quite up to par despite physical therapy—but damned if he's going to give up.

((()))

Painkillers, Dean thinks longingly. His body aches like a son of a bitch, reminding him that he's been relatively inactive for the better part of a month, and hey, maybe spending an entire afternoon in the sun laying mines wasn't the best idea ever. Dean leans his head against the cool steal of the compound doors for a moment, debating the merits and flaws of painkillers. Yeah, they're drugs, and the last thing he needs is to get an addiction. At the same time, surely it's not natural to feel like every muscle's on fire.

He'll get Missouri to judge, he decides. With a titanic effort, he levers himself up from the door and stumbles the interminably long distance to the infirmary. To his utter disappointment, Missouri's not there when he pushes open the door. Instead, there's Dr. Robert, puttering around a couple of beds with a number of rather frightening-looking apparatus. "Great," Dean mumbles, dragging a hand across his face.

"Dean," Dr. Robert says, looking up at him. "Can I help you with something?"

"Yeah," Dean says, forcing the words out. "I was, uh. Looking for Missouri?"

"She went out," Dr. Robert says, "but feel free to hang around and wait."

"Yeah, sure," Dean says as he eases himself down onto an empty bed. For a moment, he's tempted to simply lie back there and potentially dieo n the spot, but he remembers that the sheets of the infirmary are clean and he, well, he's somewhat not. "When she'd say that she'd be back?"

"Uh," Dr. Robert says, sounding distracted. "Ten minutes? I'm not sure. She went to discuss something with Ellen."

"Ah," Dean says, unable to summon up the energy for anything more eloquent. He eases himself into a slightly more comfortable position on the bed, glancing over with idle interest at the other two patients in the room. "So what's going on?" he asks, more to break the uncomfortable silence than anything else. "Thought you guys cleared out the long-termers ages ago."

Dr. Robert looks at him for a moment. "A patrol picked up these two earlier," he says. "Refugees."

"Oh, really?" Dean asks, his interest piqued. He pushes himself gingerly out of the bed and wanders over to check out the two figures in the bed. "I saw Olivia come in with a couple earlier."

"Did you," Dr. Robert says neutrally.

Dean shakes his head in absent irritation, but whatever annoyance he feels towards Dr. Robert is forgotten as he looks at the two in the beds. One of them's a kid, can't be much older than ten. The other's a teenager on the cusp of adulthood—fourteen, maybe. Fifteen on the outside. Both of them could stand to gain much more weight and use a lot fewer drugs, if the bruising along the insides of their arms is any indication. "Shit," Dean mumbles, dragging a hand across his face. "So they picked them up outside? They come from angel-occupied 4-C?"

"Apparently so," Dr. Robert says.

Which is not very helpful, but the details are just semantics at this point. Dean grits his teeth as the old irritation burns in his chest. Damn it. He really, _really_ hates it when angels fuck with the kids, the noncombatants, those who can't fight back if their lives depended on it. Carefully, Dean reaches out two fingers and lays it on the older boy's wrist. The pulse that beats there is thready, weak.

"Fucking angels," he mutters, running a hand through his hair. Dean wraps his hand around the older boy's, wishing that he could do something more than this.

"Weren't you supposed to be waiting for Missouri?" Dr. Robert's voice cuts through his thoughts. "You could try her office, you know."

"No," Dean says. His aching muscles seem somehow trivial compared to what these kids have been through, and anyway, sitting's better than walking at this point in the game. "I'll wait for her here."

"Suit yourself," Dr. Robert says, but he doesn't sound pleased. Frankly, Dean couldn't give a shit what Dr. Robert feels at this point in time.

((()))

He's not sure how long he sits there, just staring blankly off into space. He doesn't register the twitching grip under his hand until the third time it happens, and then Dean gives a startled yelp and sits up straight, ignoring his complaining muscles. "He's waking up!"

Immediately, Dr. Robert heads on over, none-too-gently pushing Dean out of the way. The older boy's eyelids are fluttering slightly as he struggles back to wakefulness, and Dean feels an inordinate amount of excitement bubble up in his chest. "Hey," Dean says as Dr. Robert checks the boy's pupils and causes him to wince away. "It's okay. It's going to be okay."

"Ryan," the kid mutters. "Where's Ryan?"

"Who's Ryan?" Dean asks, gentling his voice as much as he can.

"My brother," the kid says, and Dean feels his heart clench in his chest. "S'okay?"

Dean glances over at the younger boy in the next bed. "He's going to be fine," he promises, somewhat rashly. He doesn't look at Dr. Robert, who doubtless would expose the lie. "What's your name, kid?"

"Joe," the kid says, swallowing painfully. "Joe Silver. Where's Ryan? I have to see Ryan."

"He's right over there," Dean says, something curling in his gut at the helpless plea in Joe's voice. "Hey, settle down. You need to rest."

Joe tries to lift himself from the bed, but Dean holds him down with a gentle push to the shoulder. "Sir?" Joe asks as he pushes weakly against Dean's grip. "Sir, is he okay, please just tell me that he's going to live—"

"His blood pressure is dangerously low," Dr. Robert says with a frown. He heads over to a cabinet and pulls out a monstrous-looking needle that has Joe's eyes widening and his struggles doubling. "I'm going to give him something to help pull it up. In the meantime—" Dr. Robert flips Ryan's limp arm over and frowns at the purpling there— "Tell me what happened."

Joe's eyes dart back and forth between Dean and Dr. Robert, his chest fluttering rapidly up and down. "Ryan," he insists. Dean gives Dr. Robert a look, and the older man sighs and throws up his hands.

"He's over there," Dr. Robert says, pointing. "He's in one piece. Now instead of panicking, could you tell us what happened?"

Joe tries to get up from the bed again, but Dean, feeling like a complete asshole, holds him back. Dean doesn't miss how Joe's eyes linger on Ryan, desperately soaking up every bit of information he can. Finally, Joe sags back against Dean, and Dean winces to feel just how light the boy is. "Croat," Joe mumbles. "I had to stop the shaking somehow," he says, his voice wavering. "I didn't want to, but I had to, I didn't know what else to do. The angels dosed us up on something, and when we got away Ryan started seizing and I had to do something—"

"Wait, backtrack," Dr. Robert says. "Where did the angels keep you? What happened? How did you get away?"

Joe takes a deep breath, almost gulping for air before he speaks. "We were in section 4-C and got swept up pretty fast in the first raid. The angels, they kept us in this…this place." He swallows, his fingers clenching compulsively.

"Place," Dr. Robert says. "Right. Can you be more specific, son?"

Dean bristles at the patronizing tone of Dr. Robert's voice, but Joe doesn't seem to notice. Joe shakes his head, but Dean doesn't think that it's because he's unwilling to answer. "There was a man," he murmurs. "He got us out."

"A man," Dean says, but Joe doesn't seem able to volunteer any more. "Okay." He looks at Dr. Robert, who seems unsurprised. "Doc?"

Dr. Robert seems to consider Joe for a moment, his look cool and assessing before it finally softens. "Okay," he says. "Let's deal with that later. You gave him Croat? How much?"

Joe shakes his head wordlessly, and Dr. Robert sighs. "And of course, the tox screens aren't back yet. Did you give him one vial? A standard dose?" A pause, then a weak nod. "Okay, then that's forty-percent solution of a hundred-milligram dose. Way too high for a child his size, even for a regular user. Did you—"

"Not a user," Joe mumbles. "We don't touch drugs."

"Well, evidently you did," Dr. Robert says briskly, and Dean's eyes narrow at the cool dismissal. "Let's just hope that whatever the angels gave you, it's Grace and not something else we don't know about," Dr. Robert mutters. "But I don't think it's Grace. If Joe gave Ryan Croat with Grace bonded to his cells, then he should be in adjusted detox right now. This isn't it."

"Sir?" Joe asks blearily. "What's going on? He going to be okay? Ryan?"

"Hey," Dean says softly. "Settle down, kid. I know you're scared, but you're safe now, I swear—"

"No," Joe mutters. Evidently pulling some last shred of energy from hell-knows-where, he surges up from the bed in a sudden fit of violence, almost making it off the bed. "Lemme go! Ryan!"

Dean clamps down on his arms, feeling like utter shit but knowing that he has to stop Joe from hurting himself. As Joe's struggles grow wilder, Dr. Robert sweeps in, holds his thrashing arm down, and slides a needle into his arm. "What the hell?" Dean demands as Dr. Robert presses the plunger down and Joe's movements slow. "You're hypoing him?"

"You had a better suggestion?" Dr. Robert says coolly.

"What about his brother?" Dean hisses, sure to keep his hand steady on Joe's back as the younger man sags. "He's worried about Ryan!"

"Worrying's not going to much good, I'm afraid," Dr. Robert replies sharply as he gives the eerily still Ryan a sideways glance. "The boy's going to need to rest, and worrying through detox will do no one any favors." He jerks his head to indicate Ryan. "I'm going to need quiet to work on his brother."

Dean inhales deeply and holds it for a moment before finally letting it out in an explosive breath of air. "Damn it," he says, not sure why he's cursing except because he has to. It's the logical choice, of course. And even Dean can see some situations in which emotion is just not practical or plain stupid. But that doesn't stop it from feeling right.

Dean tucks Joe into the bed, pulling the blankets up around him. He rests a hand on Joe's shoulder for a moment, trying to shake off the totally unreasonable feeling that he's just done something morally wrong. When he finally looks up, he sees that Dr. Robert has scooped Ryan up in his arms, evidently preparing to cart him away. "Hey," Dean says, surprising himself with the roughness of his voice. "Where're you going?"

Dr. Robert looks at him and raises an eyebrow at the interrogative tone, but Dean refuses to back down. "Trying to keep them alive," Dr. Robert says.

"But Ryan should be here when Joe wakes up," Dean says.

"'Should' being the key word here," Dr. Robert says in an odd voice. Dean frowns. The overtone of exhaustion is clear enough, but there's something else in his voice that Dean can't quite identify. "Back off and let me do my job, Winchester," Dr. Robert says. "I'm doing my best."

"You better be," Dean says, but there's no real force to the threat. It's hard to be intimidating when you're suddenly sweating for oxygen, because for some reason the room is just too damn small. Dean looks down at Joe's unconscious face one last time before pushing past Dr. Robert. The pressure in his chest doesn't let off once he's in the corridor, but Dean refuses to give into it as he stalks down the hall in quick, angry strides.

He gets all the way to the relative privacy of the garage before his legs finally give out. Dean sinks against the wall, hating the shaking that courses through him, hating the stupid urge, illogical urge to just curl up in a ball and cry his fucking eyes out. He digs his nails into his palms and struggles to get his breathing under control, but every breath comes out sounding like a high, wounded cry of pain.

_Sam, Sam, I tried, I swear, but no one would tell me where the fucking Nest is, I'm sorry I couldn't save you, I would have killed to save you, Sam, are you okay, please tell me you're okay, I'm _so sorry—

Get a hold of yourself, Dean. These brothers are Ryan and Joe, _not_ Sam and Dean; they've got nothing to do with you, Dean, other than the fact that you're both pairs of genetically related humans with XY chromosomes. You're not Joe. Sam's not Ryan. _Get yourself under control, soldier_.

You've got work to do.

"Fuck you, Dad," Dean whispers. "Just shut—the _fuck—up—_"

But the admonitions do have some good. Dean finds the terrible urge slowly dissipating like smoke: traces of it still linger, but it's no longer overwhelming to the point of pain. He takes a deep breath, one that sounds normal and not like a cry of pain. He takes another one and another, riding out the last of the shakes until the bitter end.

((()))

Castiel wakes up when Dean pushes the door open, something that Dean can't quite bring himself to be sorry about. "Hey," he says roughly as he sheds his jacket and throws it onto the table.

Castiel doesn't say 'hey' back, as it's probably against their Angel Code of Cool or something. But he does push himself up to his elbows, blinking slowly at Dean in a truly unnerving way. "Hello," he says finally.

"Go back to sleep," Dean says, not looking at him. "I'm just going to take a shower." He turns his back onto the bed, rummaging through the piles on the floor in search of clean clothes to wear. And if he flings the shirts with unnecessary force, well, that's got nothing to do with anything.

A warm hand wraps around his arm, stilling his latest angry throw. "Dean," Castiel says, managing to convey an entire universe in that single word. Dean closes his eyes and takes a deep, shuddering breath as Castiel's arm wraps around his shoulders. He wants to throw Castiel's arms off; he wants to turn around and return the hug. He does neither, letting Castiel's breath stir his hair instead. Neither of them say anything. Their relationship is built in a series of heated fights and careful silences, something that can be alternately aggravating and welcome.

"You're wearing the trench," Dean notes when his heartbeat finally slows to a moderate speed. "What do I have to do to get you to take it off before you go to bed? It smells like crap and I don't want it stinking up the bed."

He can feel Castiel's head shift slightly on his shoulder. "I'll take that under advisement," Castiel says. "You yourself could stand to be a little cleaner."

"I said I was going to take a shower," Dean says, but he doesn't try to break free. Castiel huffs softly, and the breath of air sends goosebumps running down Dean's spine. "Go back to sleep, you dick," Dean says quietly. "It's late." He pauses. "Or maybe not. I guess you've been asleep all day."

Castiel makes a shrugging motion against Dean's back and abruptly, lets him go. Dean stumbles momentarily at the loss before righting himself and picking up the nearest clothes he can find. "What happened? Was patrol that upsetting?" Castiel asks. Dean glances at him sharply, but Castiel's looking back at the bed, his hands fussing with the blanket.

Dean doesn't say anything for a while, debating whether or not to talk. "I hate it when it's the kids, Cas," he says finally, striving to keep his voice as calm as possible. "I just really, really hate it when your dick pals come after the kids."

Castiel's eyes widen fractionally, which is a big reaction for an angel. "Has there been another attack?"

"No," Dean says. "Just—" and all of a sudden, the frustrations of the entire day spill out in a deep, shaky sigh. "Just life. Life as a human under the angels. Nothing new."

"What happened?"

Dean shrugs, turning his back onto Cas. "Nothing." He laughs, sounding manic even to his own ears. By the time it finally peters off he feels exhausted, almost drained. Well, more exhausted than before, and drained almost empty. Castiel's silent throughout all this, but Dean can feel his eyes on his back, the ever watchful gaze sweeping him from head to toe. "You think it ever ends, man?" Dean says finally, leaning his forehead against the wall. "You think that there'll ever be a day when it's all just over?"

"I'm not familiar with grief," Castiel says quietly. "I suspect that what I…_feel_…for Anna is not nearly as strong as what you do for Sam."

"Are you over her?" Dean asks. The desperation in his voice surprises him. "Anna. Are you—are you okay with it? Will you forget her? _Can_ you forget her?"

"We are trained to remember," Castiel says, which isn't an answer at all. "But not as people, not as humans would. We remember them as…objects. Lessons. Morals to be learned."

"Long live the Father," Dean whispers.

"All hail the Host, and the Nests over which they govern," Castiel says, and it sounds like a pronouncement of doom, not unlike the dying crackle of a funeral pyre. "Our lives we commend to the glory of Zion and its angels. Amen."

"Freaking hooray," Dean says bleakly in the silence that follows.

"What happened?" Castiel repeats patiently.

Dean runs a hand through his hair, tired down to the bone. He turns to look at Castiel, who regards him in turn with calm blue eyes. "There were two kids. They'd just gotten away from the angels. And damn it, Cas, they looked like utter crap. The angels dosed them and starved them and it just…shit. The older brother, uh…Joe. He was trying so damn hard to save his little brother. Gave him Croat to help with the detox, but I guess it didn't quite work out."

Castiel frowns. "He was worried?"

Dean snorts. "Well, yeah. It's an older brother thing." He laughs, more than a little self-deprecating.

"He was worried," Castiel repeats flatly.

"Almost hysterical," Dean says as he drops heavily down on the bed. "Poor kid. Poor, stupid idiot of a kid." He rubs his face. "And now I'm self-pitying. Again. Nearly fucking broke down earlier." He takes a deep breath. "I _hate_ this."

Castiel's quiet for a moment. Finally, he says, "If he had been given Grace by the angels, he wouldn't have been worried," he says. "Not in early detox. Grace suppresses emotions, and worry is an emotion."

The tone of his voice is strange enough that Dean looks up at him. "What do you mean, Cas?"

"Are you sure the angels gave them Grace?"

"Well—" Dean begins. He shakes his head, recalling Dr. Robert's words: _I don't think it's Grace_. "You think that the angels have cooked up something else?"

"I don't know. What exactly did they tell you?"

"They, uh…they got captured, drugged, and managed to get away when somebody—a man, whoever the hell he is, got them out. Then they ran, Ryan started to seize, Joe gave him Croat before they finally found us." Castiel's silent for a long moment, and Dean has to resist the urge to shake him. "Castiel," Dean repeats, his voice louder. "What do you think happened?"

Castiel takes a deep breath and opens his mouth as if to answer. He closes it again slowly, shaking his head. "I can't…I can't answer that," he says finally. Dean's about to launch into a tirade about angels and secrets when Castiel adds, "I don't know enough."

"But you think something's wrong," Dean says.

"I suspect," Castiel corrects.

"Well, excuse me," Dean growls. "Stop nitpicking at semantics and just spill it out, Cas. What's going on?"

"I don't _know_, Dean!" Castiel says, his voice loud enough to shut Dean up immediately. "I just—" he breaks off. He looks frustrated, the expression on his face peculiarly human. "I wish I did know," he adds.

He's looking up at Dean now, his gaze locking onto Dean's with a powerful, almost frightening intensity. Dean looks back at him, shaken by the strength of Cas' gaze. "Whoa," Dean says slowly. "Is—is everything okay, Cas?"

The moment seems to stretch on, and it's an age before Castiel's head drops and he looks away. "I'm sorry."

Dean laughs wearily. "Sorry about what? Being an angel, you can either apologize for nothing or the whole universe. All or nothing deal going on."

The side of Castiel's mouth twitches slightly, but he doesn't say anything for a long moment. "You care about these children."

Dean waves a hand, embarrassed. "I just don't like seeing kids fucked up." He swipes a hand across his forehead. Damn, he's _exhausted_.

Castiel regards him with an indecipherable expression before he reaches out to lightly touch Dean on the shoulder. "Go wash up, Dean," Castiel tells him, and despite the softness of Castiel's voice, it's worded as an order. "We can deal with this tomorrow."

"I'm fucking busy tomorrow, asshole," Dean mutters, but there's no real force to it.

"So are we all," Castiel tells him more than a little dryly. "Life continues, much as we may rage against it."

"That sounds poetic. I didn't know you had the heart of a philosopher inside that stoic angel shell," Dean tells him. Castiel's face doesn't change, but Dean gets the not-so-subtle impression that he's rolling his eyes. "Anyway. I'm sorry that I woke you up. Go back to sleep."

Castiel nods and sits back down on the bed. Dean gathers up his clothes and heads out the door, turning off the light on his way out.

((()))

_4.2: Castiel_

Castiel pretends to be asleep when Dean enters after his shower. He waits patiently for Dean's breath to finally even out in slumber before slipping out of the bed they share, and it's a matter of minutes for him to dress and make his way out the door. It's long past midnight, and the halls are nearly deserted except for the odd passerby. Castiel fingers the smooth plastic of his pager and rereads the message there, sent just half an hour ago: _Lab, now. –R_.

What he's doing—it's not lying, strictly speaking. But at the same time, it's not the truth, either.

Dr. Robert's in the lab when Castiel enters, and the human's face is aglow with excitement. Words spill out of him, disjointed but clear as he rushes from table to table: whatever the angels used on Ryan and Joe (if indeed they were held by angels in the first place) isn't Grace. Normally, it would be dismal news to hear that yet another drug is entering an already volatile situation, but Dr. Robert's bubbling with the fact that whatever the drug was, it seems to stimulate the production of an antibody that neutralizes Croat. Completely.

"Afraid that's what's wrong with Ryan, actually," Dr. Robert says with a certain manic tone to his voice. "He's younger, and the overdose of Croat to his brain caused the antibody to go a bit haywire. Once it flushed the Croat out of his system, it started latching onto his brain stem, which is why, you know, he's having some problems. But Joe, Joe's a thing of beauty. He's only puked twice, did you know? And he was put down with a ten-twenty earlier, but a blood sample shows no trace of Croat in his system even though it's only been three hours. Now, if he doesn't show any problems like his brother, then I think we can conduct further trials and try to isolate—"

Castiel lets the words flow over him, noting with a very angelic sense of detachment the way Dr. Robert carefully sidesteps Ryan's fate. He brushes past a still babbling Dr. Robert and leans down to peer at the blood sample himself. It confirms his suspicions as well as Dr. Robert's excitement—whatever Joe and Ryan received, it wasn't Grace.

Interesting. While he's not precisely in the inner circle of the council, Castiel has a good idea of just how crippling the human reliance on Croat is. It must irritate the humans to be under the demons' control even more than the angels', and Castiel wonders just what humans would be willing to do to break free.

Dr. Robert announces that he's going down to SR and gives Castiel orders to draw more blood samples before bustling out the door. Castiel watches the swinging door meditatively for a moment before moving to do as ordered. He looks briefly through the sheaves of paperwork Dr. Robert left, gathers up the required supplies and heads for infirmary two.

As he enters, the antiseptic smell brings back flashes of memory. It hasn't been very long since he himself was a patient here—or a prisoner, depending on your point of view. He supposes he's not either now, not really. But as to what exactly he is, well. That's a question for more philosophic questioning than he can properly handle, even with his expanded worldview.

He shakes his head and directs his attention to the sleeping figures in the beds. Joe and Ryan, the objects of Dean's internal conflict. Castiel studies them dispassionately, cataloging them in a way an angel would. Human male, approximately sixteen years of age, light-brown hair, approximately one point eight meters. Appears to be in poor condition with visible scrapes on the hands in arms. Last Croat injection, one day ago. Last Grace consumption? Last unknown drug injection? Both unknown. Second human male, approximately eleven years of age. Dark-brown hair, one point three meters tall, snoring slightly and out like a light, the poor sucker.

Castiel frowns at the last thought. He doesn't have to guess where it came from. He's still not sure whether it's a good or a bad thing, or whether it doesn't mean anything at all and just is. Castiel permits himself the luxury of a sigh before chasing the distractions from his mind.

He draws the blood as ordered: two thirty-milligram vials each, undoubtedly to be analyzed and picked apart for every scrap of information they hold. And then, when blood fails to suffice, perhaps the humans themselves will be under the microscope next. Castiel's never served in the Nest of Purity, but he knows enough about how they work to guess the humans' probable fate.

Castiel heads back to the lab and leaves the vials in the centrifuge to analyze later. He hesitates for a moment before he leaves, holding a small silent debate with himself. That's another new thing he's found to be particularly irritating in his post-Grace life: doubt. Doubt about whether he's on the right path, doubt as to whether or not he should pry where he's clearly not supposed to. He's not entirely certain that that's a bad thing, but…

With sudden resolution, Castiel heads back towards the infirmaries, but this time detouring into infirmary one, the smallest one. It's surprising what you can pick up when you're in the background and deemed just unimportant enough to be ignored. The paperwork that Dr. Robert left behind doesn't just include two young human males, but also a third refugee who had been picked up by the patrol.

He punches in the code for the door and steps through the doorway as it opens. There's a single prone figure lying on the bed, and if anything, he looks to be in far worse shape than the two young ones. Castiel looks down at him with a sense of clinical detachment, examining the stark lines of his face carefully. Gabriel looks almost nothing like the insouciant archangel he was. In this setting, he looks very much like a sick, injured human.

He doesn't say anything. It's unlikely that Gabriel's conscious enough to process anything he says, and at any rate, conversation was never his intention. Castiel checks through the various IVs hooked up to his former brother, making sure that nothing unduly poisonous is being pumped into his system. He's not sure why he's here, really—out of a moribund curiosity (something new and post-Grace), maybe, or perhaps deep-seated loyalty (something he's always had, just perhaps not to the right people).

((()))

Dean's still asleep, but he jerks awake when Castiel enters. "Cas," he says as he settles back into the musty pillow. "Y'up?"

Castiel pauses. It should be fairly obvious that he's up, considering that he's, well, up. Looking at Dean's half-closed eyes, Castiel decides to skip the lecture and settles for a simple, "Yes."

"Nuh," Dean says, the word coming out as both a groan and a sigh. "Fuckin' late. Where y'go?"

Castiel hesitates. While his superiors may feel free to obscure the truth as they please, lying is not an angel skill and definitely not one he's learned before. "Bathroom," he says shortly, suddenly grateful for the fact that Dean is clearly still half-asleep. "Go back to sleep," Castiel adds as he kicks off his shoes and eases himself back into the bed. Dean gives another soft sigh and edges closer, his arm reaching out to wrap around Castiel's chest.

Castiel settles into the sheets, letting Dean's head come to rest on his shoulder. He runs his free hand through Dean's hair and finds himself wondering (and not for the first time) what exactly he's doing here. They don't talk about it; they've made an unspoken agreement to never talk about it. It's just an angel and a human, after all, relying on each other for something that Castiel can't quite name. And if either of them has a panic attack, or if Dean vanishes in the morning without so much as a nod, or if Castiel finds himself holding on tighter than he should during the quiet of the night, well. It's on par for the course.

Castiel moves his fingers to feel the steady pulse at the base of Dean's jaw. Dean doesn't tense up—he's probably too close to sleep to notice—and Castiel counts it as a tiny victory. To what end, he's not sure, but then again he's not really sure of anything these days.

He closes his eyes and lets the heartbeat lull him to sleep.

((()))

He's never had a dream before detox, or at the very least he's never remembered one. Dreaming's a new part of his post-Grace life, another piece of the puzzle he's still trying to figure out. The first week after his initiation, it was flashes of Anna and the heavy, burning smell of smoke. His angel control keeps him from flailing or thrashing, but he can't help but wake up sometimes feeling like there's just not enough air.

Still, any dreams about Anna are generally vague, like faint impressions in the sand. The dream this night is oddly vivid, painted in stark colors that are nearly impossible to find even in the compound. In the way of dreams, he doesn't quite recall what it's about, but it soon becomes a moot point anyway as the low burn in his groin alerts him to more pertinent matters.

Castiel shifts away from a snoring Dean and eases himself cautiously free of the covers. It's made slightly more difficult by the fact that his penis feels hard and stiff in between his legs, something that's never happened before. Adrenaline shoots through his veins at this abnormality, and Castiel freezes up for one terrifyingly human second before managing to stuff the blind panic away. He touches the length of his penis gingerly through the fabric of his pants and blinks rapidly as a rush of…_something_…runs through him.

"Oh," he says softly.

His heartbeat sounds strangely loud in his ears, and it takes a moment for him to realize that the sudden silence is because Dean's not snoring anymore. Behind him, there's the soft rasping of the covers as Dean moves, and then a hand pushes him lightly in the back. "Hey," Dean says in the slurred voice of the half-awake. "You okay?"

Castiel's mind goes terrifying blank for a moment, something that's never happened to him before either. He closes his eyes and forces himself to take a deep breath, and then another. "I'm," he says slowly, scrambling for a response. "Dean, I, uh," he says, and now he's stuttering, which is something new as well.

"Whoa," Dean says, his voice still scratchy with sleep. Castiel closes his eyes as another surge of heat shivers its way up his spine. He shifts to try to relieve the pressure, biting his lip as the movement only makes it worse. "Castiel. You okay?"

Dean sits up, and Castiel can feel the heat of Dean's body against his back. Castiel tries frantically to ignore his physical reactions at this, but even his lifetime of angel training doesn't seem to be working. In a way, it's like detox all over again: his body's betraying him with new developments that are new, foreign, and _entirely unwelcome_.

"You look like you're going to collapse," Dean remarks, and suddenly all Castiel can be aware of is the fact that Dean's hand is on his shoulder and seemingly burning through his coat. Castiel startles and pulls away, but his escape is hindered by the fact that his _problem_ is harder than ever. "Whoa!" Dean says as Castiel scrabbles against the bedpost for balance. "Damn it, Cas, what the hell is up your ass?"

Castiel wears his trenchcoat to bed as a matter of habit (and maybe, just maybe for the reassurance of something constant), and now it does a decent job of hiding his problem. But now Dean's standing up, and Castiel knows perfectly well that he should act normal if he wants Dean to back off. "I'm fine," Castiel says, but it comes out as a weak rasp rather than the authoritative growl he was trying for. "I was just going to head out—"

"You're sweating," Dean says. "Cas. Did something happen while I was asleep?"

Castiel doesn't say anything. He can feel Dean's gaze on him, moving slowly down from his face—puzzled, initially, and then changing almost imperceptibly as his eyes drop to Castiel's groin. "Oh," Dean says. "Ah."

Castiel lifts his eyes from the floor to look at Dean's face. There's—he's—the corner of his mouth is twitching. "Is something wrong with me?" Castiel asks, his fingers tightening on the bedpost. He tries to keep the desperation out of his voice and mostly succeeds.

"Cas," Dean says, and now he's grinning, even laughing. "I, uh. Oh, man. I never—okay, wow. Seriously? _Seriously_?" Dean says unhelpfully. "And from the look on your face I'd've thought that it'd fallen off or something, not—"

"Dean!" Castiel growls.

"Whoa!" Dean says, putting his hands up in surrender. "Relax, Cas. It's just a boner."

"A what?"

"They didn't teach you about this in angel boot camp?" Dean says, raising an eyebrow. "Please tell me they taught you this in angel boot camp." Castiel shakes his head, and the last traces of amusement drain from Dean's face. "Oh, _fuck. _I have to explain this shit to you? Talk about awkward, man."

Castiel does not curse. Angels don't curse as it's generally regarded as a waste of breath, but right now Castiel has to battle the temptation to unleash a few choice ones. "Dean," he repeats instead, which is not much more helpful.

"It's a…thing," Dean says finally, a definite note of awkwardness in his voice. "Guys—well, guys who aren't coked out of their minds on Grace, I guess—get them. They're, uh. You know, sometimes you get excited and—did you just have a wet dream?"

"What," Castiel says, using all his control to make it a statement rather than a question. He doesn't need this right now, he really doesn't. As if he didn't have enough to worry about with Gabriel's sudden reappearance. "What is going on, Dean."

"Shit," Dean says, and now he looks visibly upset. He opens his mouth and then closes it again, his face twitching slightly as if he's not too sure which expression is appropriate. Castiel waits with growing alarm as Dean closes his eyes, clearly having some internal argument that Castiel can't hope to understand. Castiel looks down at the fabric covering his groin and shifts his hips slightly, hoping irrationally that this…_boner_…has gone away while he's been distracted.

It hasn't.

He looks up as Dean exhales slowly, his eyes opening as he evidently comes to some internal decision. "Well," Dean says, and there's an odd note to his voice. "It's not all…Cas, you don't have to freak out, okay? It's normal."

"Normal," Castiel repeats, but his heartbeat does slow down a little as Dean's words sink in. Castiel takes a deep breath. "So how do I rid myself of this?" he asks, intent on cutting to the root of the problem.

Dean's eyes widen fractionally as he swallows. "Ah," he says. "That's, uh, that's…simple." There's another frozen moment in time, and then Dean pats the side of the bed next to him. "Sit down, Cas." Castiel eases himself slowly down on the bed, watching Dean carefully. "There's a lot of ways to get rid of this," Dean says slowly, his fingers twisting in the sheets. "The easiest way, though, is just to touch it."

"Touch?" Castiel says uncertainly.

He watches as Dean's hand hovers for a moment. Lightly, like a butterfly coming to rest, Dean's hand brushes over the head of his erection. Castiel gasps as another rush of that alien heat races through him. He jerks out of Dean's reach before Dean can reach out again, holding up his hands to ward Dean off. "No," he says. "Dean, don't—"

"What's the matter?" Dean asks, looking alarmed. He snatches his hand back as if he's been burned. "Did I hurt you?"

Castiel shakes his head violently. "No," he says, aware that he's losing any scrap of control he's ever had and hating the fact. It did feel good, it does, and a part of him wants more, but another part wants to bury himself in Grace and never emerge. Pain he understands, but this—this is more than pain, it's something else equally powerful. And there's nothing is as powerful as pain—is there?

"Cas," Dean says softly. Castiel looks at him, searching for reassurance—_reassurance!_—in a human. _This_ human, to be precise. He doesn't know what they have and can't hope to define it, but somehow it's more real than anything else he's ever had. "Look, man," Dean says. "I didn't mean to freak you out. I'm sorry." He smiles, but it doesn't look quite real even to Castiel's inexperienced eyes. "Freaked myself out too, if that helps."

Silence stretches between them for a moment. Castiel takes a moment to gather what's left of his control, slow down his breathing, count his heartbeats. Dean's the one to break the silence, his voice low. "So, uh," he says. "I guess we're done here?"

Castiel looks at him. Dean's staring off in some distant direction, refusing to meet his gaze. Whatever's going on, Castiel senses that it's his turn now. "Wait," Castiel says hesitatingly. "Dean…"

He's not sure how to ask it, or even what to ask for. As the silence continues, Castiel reverts to what he knows best, asking the only way angels know how: "Again."

Dean turns to look at him. There's a strange light in his eyes as his gaze sweeps Castiel up and down, finally resting to meet Castiel's gaze. But Castiel's equal to it, and finally Dean gives a short, decisive nod. "Okay," he says quietly. "Okay."

Castiel braces himself for it, but the intensity still manages to wring a strangled gasp from him. Slowly, with deliberate movements, Dean eases Castiel's pants off his hips, followed next by his boxers—well, Dean's boxers really, most of the clothing he wears has been Dean's at some point. But these details fade into significance as Dean locks his eyes on Cas' and very gently, runs a finger across Cas' bare skin. "Tell me if you want to stop," Dean says, his gaze clear.

Castiel nods. His hips buck up involuntarily into Dean's hand, and Castiel's suddenly desperate for more touch, more stimulation, more of whatever it is that's surging through his body, speeding up his pulse and breath. Dean doesn't look away, and on one hand it's shameful that he's so vulnerable before a mere human. On the other hand, something inside of him never wants it to end.

Dean's movements grow bolder. His hand curls around Castiel's straining erection, tugging very lightly. His thumb rolls smooth, lazy circles over the heated skin, and Castiel's fingers tighten on Dean's shoulder as a wave of overwhelming heat surges through him. For a frightening, exhilarating movement, he can't do anything but gasp wordlessly as it utterly destroys any semblance of control he's ever had, his entire mind gone blank.

The wave ebbs slowly. Castiel finds himself panting like he's just run a marathon, his fingers gone white on Dean's shoulder. He stares at Dean, his mind reeling. Individual words tumble through his mind, none of which come close to making any sense.

"Dean," he says finally, grasping for the one that's closest in reach. "I—"

He doesn't know how to finish that sentence. He does—he wants—he will. The sentences form in his mind, but there's no proper angel way to end them. Like everything else, it's new, and similarly like everything else, it's because of this human. This one, insignificant human that Castiel would once have calmly turned over to the Nest of Love without a second thought and mostly likely would've never thought of again once his duty had been completed.

Dean blinks. Once. Twice. His hand lifts away from Castiel's groin, covered with clear white semen. "Well," Dean says, and for some reason the clarity's fading from his gaze, replaced by discomfort. "You liked it?"

"Yes," Castiel says softly, aware that he's losing Dean but not sure why or how. "It was—"

"Good," Dean interrupts loudly. "I'm glad." He picks up Castiel's discarded clothing from the floor and presses it into Dean's hands. "I, uh, have to go."

And he's out the door before Castiel can even process what's happened. Castiel sits on the edge of the bed, half-naked and clutching his clothes, left to wonder what exactly went wrong.

((()))

_4.3: Pamela_

Shit happens. Pamela knows all about shit; she's an Oldtown native born and bred. When you're a child of Oldtown, shit is a way of life. People die. Friends die. You go blind. But you cope, because that's what humans do, and Oldtown still limps on. This philosophy works better in theory than practice, though. Sometimes, Pamela can't help but wish, even if wishing's a waste of time.

Like right now, for instance, she wishes that she could deck the moron who walked right into her. "Hey, what's your problem?" she demands irritably. "What, you missing a couple eyeballs as well? I'll be happy to fix it if that's not the case."

"Oh, shit," a male voice says, and Pamela sighs. "Pamela, I'm sorry. I was—uh—distracted."

"Yeah, Dean, I can see that," she says dryly. "Or feel it, anyway." She lets him hoist her up to her feet, and she rubs the back of her head ruefully. "What bit your ass, anyway? You sound like crap."

Dean laughs, but it doesn't sound entirely real to Pamela's practiced ears. "Just stuff."

"Uh huh. Stuff," Pamela says. "It better be some stuff is all I'm saying."

"Yeah, well," Dean says, and there's a definite note of uneasiness in his voice now. "You could say that."

Pamela sighs. "You in some kind of trouble, Dean?" she asks. "You…you coping okay, I mean? A lot of things have happened, I know, and…"

"I should be asking you that, shouldn't I?" Dean says. "I, uh. You doing okay?"

Pamela considers it for a moment before shrugging. "Well," she says slowly, "I could use a hand getting to the cafeteria, if you're up for it. Help a poor old lady along?"

"I'm sorry about that," Dean begins, but Pamela waves him off. She's done the whole sorry, so sorry routine and she's tired sick of it. It doesn't do a cent of good, and it just makes her feel like even more of an invalid. She links her arm into Dean's and waits expectantly. Good boy that he is, he starts walking, and Pamela can sense that they're headed down to the cafeteria.

"Suck it up," she tells him, not unkindly but rather firmly. "I'm not dead."

Dean's silent for a moment. Pamela's more acutely aware of silences than ever before, and she knows that they can be as expressive as words. "Pamela," Dean says finally, and his voice sounds oddly vulnerable. "Don't take this the wrong way, but uh…"

"That doesn't sound good," she remarks as his words trail off. "Let me guess. You're asking me if I'm glad to be alive? Alive, but blind?"

"Sort of," Dean says. He pauses before adding, "It's not just about blindness, Pamela."

"Relax, tiger. I figured as much," she tells him. She can tell that they're approaching the cafeteria by the increased sound of voices, and she lets go of Dean's arm once they're inside in order to take a tray. Getting the Mush of the Day gives her an excuse to analyze the tone of Dean's voice and gives her time to formulate her reply.

"We were pretty good, weren't we," she says as Dean guides her to a table, and they sit down. "The four of us? Kicking ass all over Oldtown?" Her voice sounds wistful even to her own ears, but she doesn't try to hide it. Dean gets it, after all. Their patrol didn't just work, they fucking _kicked ass_. Even with the cold war between Anna and Dean near the end.

"I guess we were," Dean says softly.

The implication's there in his words; that none of them will never be that good again. Anna's dead. Sam's, well, Sam's probably dead. She'll never hunt again, and Dean…

"So what's eating you?" she says, dipping her spoon gingerly into her mush. "Aside from the obvious."

"There has to be something more than that?" Dean asks, his voice dull.

Pamela swallows her mush before she replies. "I guess not."

"You think…you think he's dead?" Dean asks, sounding peculiarly childlike for a moment. Pamela sighs and reaches out to him. Her hand brushes rough stubble, and she cups his face lightly. "Pamela," he says as she rests her hand against the heat of his face. "You think we can find him?"

"Maybe it's time to mourn, Dean," she says at last. "Let him go. Once and for all."

Dean laughs, an ugly, broken sound. "Easier said than done."

"So's coping after you've gone blind," she says, the words coming out sharper than she intended them to. "I'm working on it. So should you."

"A hunter's life," he mutters into her palm, but her ears catch the words anyway. "All sunshine and puppies."

"And unicorns shoot rainbows out of their ass," she says agreeably, removing her hand. Dean gives a weary snort, but the silence this time is somewhat less tense. "So, what's been going on lately? Give an old lady a vicarious thrill, will you? I heard you got discharged from Missouri's ward of doom."

"Just barely escaped with my life," Dean says, and she can hear the relief in his voice at the change of subject. "I, uh, got discharged yesterday morning. I was getting sick of therapy, anyhow. Signed up for patrol."

"Kick any angel ass?" Pamela asks.

"Not really," Dean says. There's a momentary note of amusement in his voice, quickly washed away by the familiar depression. "Picked up some kids, though."

"Free children," Pamela says, startled. "There're still some running around out there?"

"Yep," Dean says. "Free kids. Well, kind of free, anyway. Two boys. They said that they got away from angels."

Pamela tilts her head. "I smell a 'but' in there."

"They're too emotional," Dean says slowly. "Too…anyone who's on a Grace high—or hell, even detoxing from it, no way they can get worked up. Something…it's just messed up, what's going on with them, Pamela."

"I'm sure the Doc can figure it out," Pamela says with a frown.

"He's from the Nest of Purity," Dean says, and the bitterness in his voice surprises her. "Trained by angels. You really trust him?"

Pamela raises an eyebrow. "Dean, you do know that less than ten percent of the humans here are free-born, right? And you yourself aren't free-born, so I wouldn't go pointing fingers if I were you. And hell, we used to _work_ with an angel! Remember Anna?"

Dean's quiet for a moment. Finally he says, "We broke up long before she died."

"Yeah, but we were still in the same patrol. But yeah," she adds dryly. "Hell fucked you guys right up, huh?"

Dean takes a sharp, sudden breath, and she shakes her head, instantly regretful. "I'm sorry," she says, sensing Dean's sudden stillness. "Shouldn't have gone there. What happens in Hell stays in Hell."

"No," Dean says slowly. "It's, uh, it's fine. I, uh…I'm not. I'm not going to let it mess with me."

"Yeah? Is it working?"

"A little bit," Dean says. He huffs softly. "I mean, I don't deal with them anymore. And time heals everything, isn't that how the old cliché goes?"

"There's cliché and then there's real life," Pamela says soberly. She touches his arm, seeking the solidity of touch. "It'll be okay, Dean," she says softly. It's a lie, because life isn't _okay_ when you're a human trapped between the angels and the demons, but it's a pleasant fiction to hold close when you've got nothing else. "It's all going to work out."

She can tell by Dean's laugh that while he doesn't believe it, he knows the value of lies just as much as she does. "I know," he says. His arm twitches under her touch before stilling, as if Dean has to force himself not to pull away. "Just saying life would be a lot simpler if everyone out there stopped fucking with us and shoving their drugs down our throats. Between Grace and Croat, what's a guy got to do to say no?"

Pamela rubs Dean's arm soothingly. "I'm with you on Grace," she says. "And yeah, getting hooked on Croat can be dumb, but it gives people something to hold onto, Dean. Don't begrudge them that."

"Next thing you know, I'll become a fucking addict," Dean mutters. "Do the old chug-a-lug-o'-Croat route like Sam did."

"So what's stopping you?" she asks, genuinely curious.

Dean sighs. There's a long, long hesitation before he finally speaks again, his voice low. "Do you think it's wrong of me to do both?"

"You're going to have to give me more than that, Dean," she tells him gently. She pauses and then adds, "Unless you mean both Croat and Grace at the same time, in which case I am going to tell you that if you're going to kill yourself, I've still got my old shotgun and it'll be a lot cleaner."

"Don't tempt me," Dean says with a humorless snort. "No, I'm not touching drugs. Not now, not ever. It's just—do you think it's okay to both grieve and—and _want_ at the same time?"

Pamela hesitates, aware that she's treading on dangerous territory. "Define want," she says cautiously.

"As in for things you can't have. Things you're not supposed to fucking want," Dean says, sounding tired.

"It's okay to want Sam back," she says quietly. "Even if it seems impossible—"

"I wish it was just Sam," Dean says, and now he's laughing, the sound chilling Pamela down to the core at the despair it contains. "No, it's not Sam. It's not that easy. I do want him back, I do, but if it were about just him I wouldn't feel this bad. Damn it, Pamela, I don't know what the hell I'm doing!"

"None of us mortals do," she says, alarmed at the sudden intensity of his voice. "Dean, what is it? It can't possibly be that bad. Is it the demons? Are they offering you some sort of deal for Sam? Tell them to fuck off if that's the case—"

"It's not just Sam!" Dean shouts. She flinches with surprise, and his tone softens, instantly penitent. "Shit, Pamela, I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry."

"Well, just remember I can shout back," she says after a moment. "And I can still kick your ass, blind or not."

"Yeah, you can," he says, but she knows that she's losing him as his voice grows more distant. His fingers wrap around hers, gently removing her hand from his arm. "I, uh…I have to go."

"Dean," she says as she hears his chair scrape on the floor. "Dean!"

"Yeah, Pamela?" he asks, gathering up his trays if the clattering is any indication.

"Don't…don't do anything stupid," she says. It's weak, but she's afraid to tip him in the wrong direction and in a foreign situation. "Not for yourself, not for Sam, not for anyone."

"When have you known me to do anything but stupid things, Pamela?" Dean mutters. "Fucking up's a Winchester specialty."

She grabs his arm before he can walk away, her fingers snagging on the sleeve of his jacket. "Damn it, Dean. Stop fucking around, damn it. Sam might be gone, but you're still alive. Don't throw your life away on some stupid fit of self-pity."

Dean's quiet for a moment, long enough that she wonders if she's heard him at all. Finally he says quietly, "What if it's not about throwing it away, Pamela? I'm not suicidal, Pamela. Not—" he snorts humorlessly "—yet, anyway. But does it make me a coward to just—to just want it to end? To want to take something else and—and forget it?"

Pamela tightens her grip. "This isn't about drugs," she says, making it a statement rather than a question.

"This isn't about drugs," he agrees. "But I'm starting to think that drugs might be an easier option."

She sighs. "Demons?"

"Nope."

"Something else similarly suicidal?"

"Now you're just guessing," Dean says, but he sounds calmer now. "No, it's…I think it might be a good thing. It—it's different. But then I remember Sam, and I think, I shouldn't…I can't. Not while he's…gone."

Pamela ponders the possibilities in her mind. "Is it…does it make you happy?" she says at last, searching for clues. "Whatever this thing is that you're wanting."

"Happy?" he says slowly.

"Yes, Dean, happy," she says, half-amused, half-exasperated by his hesitation. "A word that you haven't heard for a long, long time, I bet."

He laughs, a little ruefully. "Way to hit below the belt, Pamela." He's quiet for a moment. "I guess—maybe. I don't know."

"You Winchesters are not at home with Feelings, huh?" she says affectionately. "I know that—I know Sam's a big part of who you are. Who we are. But uh…no. I don't think it's wrong to want something else, or to feel guilty for…not mourning."

"I still do," he says softly, intensely. "And I'm…part of me doesn't want to let it go, Pamela."

"You don't have to let it go to get something else, Dean. I don't think it's wrong to want a reprieve from pain. Acceptance is the last step of grief, or so I hear."

"Fucking psychologists. Never trusted those head-shrinkers," Dean says, but he sounds pensive like he's considering her words.

"You and me both," she says, "but they have their uses. Or so I hear."

"What about you, Pamela?" he asks suddenly, and she raises an eyebrow at how he turns the spotlight back on her. "How're you dealing with everything?"

"It sucks. What's new?" she says with a wry twist of her mouth.

"Beyond that?" he asks. She sighs and drops the glib act, seriously pondering her answer. She's…she's coping. You don't need eyes to help condense and analyze intelligence, which is what she's training for now. It's not really as satisfying as being out in the field, though. She misses Anna like fuck, Sam too, and even in a way, Dean.

"The Father can go and suck it," she says, surprising herself with the venom in her voice. "Him and all his angels. Well, except Anna; Anna was the only good one. We'll beat the rest, Dean. Someday."

"Fucking angels," Dean says agreeably, but he sounds distant. "But yeah, Anna. And…yeah. They're complicated sons of bitches." He's quiet for a moment longer before shaking himself and pulling his sleeve out of her grasp. "Thanks, Pamela."

"Do I want to know for what?" she asks, pleased but slightly confused.

Dean waves her question off. "Just…thanks," he says.

She hears his footsteps walk away, no doubt heading to dump his tray before he goes back to doing…whatever it is he's doing. She sighs, turns back to her tray, and digs her spoon into her mush. Things change, people change, Oldtown changes. Damn, they had been _so good_ once.

"But we're still good," she murmurs as both a prayer for the past and a wish for the future. "We're still kicking along."

She can only hope that her wish will come true.

((()))

_5.1: Dean_

Do you…do you think it's okay to both grieve and want? Even for things that you can't have?

_Your brother's out there in trouble and you're screwing around with an angel? What kind of a man are you? You have one job, and that's to take care of Sammy. I raised you better than that, boy._

Does it…does it make you happy?

_Happy? We're fighting a war here. The day we beat those sons of bitches in to the ground, _then_ you can tell me about happy._

It's not wrong to want something else. Even if you're mourning.

_He's not dead. He can't be dead, not my Sam. Why didn't you protect him better? Aren't you supposed to be a hunter?_

Maybe it's time to mourn. To let him go, once and for all.

Acceptance is the last stage of grief.

((()))

When he gets back to their room, Castiel is gone. Dean stares for longer than he should at the empty bed, and the realization takes longer to sink in than it really should. Okay, he thinks. Okay. So he's not here, that's not a big deal. The guy's busy, and he can't really expect Cas to hang around waiting for him.

He settles down heavily on the edge of the bed and scrubs his hair through his hands. Technically, he should be heading out to check the patrol rosters, see if he's up for another shift. If not, he could always check up on Joe or Ryan. And if that wasn't interesting enough, there were always supply runs to coordinate with Ellen. Being a rebel entailed a surprising amount of paperwork, and the demons were unexpectedly anal when it came to meticulous documentation.

He grimaces at the thought of the demons. Great. _Fucked-up _does not come close to describing the current situation. Never mind that Sam—damn, _Sam_—is dead or dying while Dean fucks around. Never mind that there are still refugees out there, kids who've clawed their way out of the hands of the Republic and are paying the price for it. Never mind that Anna's dead (another angel he's slept with, great), never mind the others who've died on the field. Because _obviously_, Dean-motherfucking-Winchester has got his priorities perfectly in line.

Dean thinks about visiting the kids in the infirmary: check up on how they're doing, see if Dr. Robert has figured out what's wrong. (While he doesn't quite trust the old man because, c'mon, the Nest of Purity ranks right below the Nest of Love when measuring in terms of angel mind-fuckery, he'll admit that Dr. Robert does know his stuff. The angels don't accept anyone other than the best, after all.) But he doesn't, because seeing those kids will remind him of Sam and Sam will remind him of just how much of an _idiot_ he is.

The irony is that he's not even entirely sure what he's being an idiot about. Fact: Sam's missing, probably dead. Probably never coming back. Fact: There's nothing Dean can do that, not unless he plans to burn down the Republic inch by inch trying to claw Sam out of the ground. Fact: he's a healthy, thirty-something guy who hasn't touched Grace in years and therefore has everything in clear working order, thanks. Fact: Castiel, also a thirty-something guy, is finally reaching the last stage of detox and getting his pipes cleaned out in every single way. Fact: the last bit of the pipe-cleaning was done by yours truly, one Dean Winchester. Fact: _and he'd kinda liked it_.

Also, fact: it was completely, utterly _wrong_. Not just because Castiel was an angel, because Dean had slept with Anna when she'd discovered the sex urge as well. Hell, they'd been in a relationship, right up to the point when Hell intruded and screwed Dean up the ass in almost every way. And it wasn't really that Castiel was a guy, either, because who cared about that shit except morons? It was just that it was wrong, wrong wrong wrong to put happiness next to the vault in his head where he kept Sam and Gwen and Victor and Anna, because in a way, it was like pissing on their graves and desecrating every last shred of dignity in their memory.

"Damn it," Dean mumbles, burying his face in his hands. If only he were as sure about it all as Pamela was. If only there was a _way_ to be sure…

((()))

Castiel turns out to be in the infirmary with Joe and Ryan. Dr. Robert's with him, and while Castiel's expression is as bland as ever, it's clear that Dr. Robert is off his rocker with excitement. "Dean!" he booms as Dean enters the infirmary. "You're early today."

"Yeah, well. Surprise adds spice to life." He coughs as Castiel looks at him with an expression of nothing but bland inquiry. It hurts, in a way, but Dean supposes that he does deserve it for running out on the guy after giving him his first orgasm ever. "So, uh," Dean begins, but he falters in the face of Castiel's unblinking gaze. "What're you working on?" he asks in lieu of his original response.

"We've found it!" Dr. Robert announces proudly as he shoves a stack of papers under Dean's nose. "I think we still need a good deal of trial testing, but it's safe to say that the prognosis is optimistic!"

"Wait, Joe and Ryan are going to be okay?" Dean says, grinning. "That's great. That's really great!"

Dr. Robert pauses for a moment before shaking his head. "Oh, no," he says. "Well, I don't know about Ryan, but Joe should be out of the woods. That's not what I was talking about, anyway. I meant the Croat withdrawal; I think we've found something that can neutralize it the same way Croat does for Grace withdrawal."

Dean huffs. "Wait, you guys finally found it? How? I thought you were banging your heads against Grace because it caused brain damage or something."

"So we're not using Grace," Dr. Robert tells him. "I've got some blood samples from our patients, and there appears to be an antibody within their bloodstream that neutralizes Croat. That would explain their abnormal reaction to it."

"Wait, so the angels didn't give them Grace? Or did Joe give Ryan something else besides Croat?"

Dr. Robert shakes his head. "No, they both definitely got Croat, and quite large doses as well. They definitely never got any Grace, though. I don't know what they received, but it's not Grace. Joe appears to be adapting wonderfully; his body's already producing antibodies to wean him through that dose of Croat he took." He beams. "And if we can collect more samples, perhaps we'll have something usable for mass production soon!"

"It is great," Dr. Robert agrees, "and I'm more than great, I'm a genius." He takes the sheaves of paper back from Dean. "Well, I'd better get back to the lab. Castiel, are you coming?"

"Hey, Cas, can I talk to you for a second?" Dean asks quickly before Castiel can answer. "Real quick."

Castiel hesitates and looks at Dr. Robert, who nods. "I'll leave you two at it," he tells them, and he leaves the infirmary in a flurry of movement. Castiel looks at the door long after he's gone before finally turning his gaze onto Dean. Dean coughs, suddenly uncomfortable with the full focus of Castiel's attention. (Then again, he's never really been comfortable with it."

"What is it?" Castiel says, and his voice is even. "I have work to do, Dean."

"Yeah, so do I," Dean says. "Good job, by the way. I noticed that Dr. Robert didn't really credit you for your work."

Castiel shrugs. "Angels don't strive for fame."

"Of course," Dean mutters. "Everything's about duty. Thought you said you weren't going to be an angel anymore."

"Would you prefer that I become a glory hound?" Castiel asks, his expression not changing one iota.

Dean sighs. "That's not what I meant."

Castiel doesn't reply to such an inane statement, and Dean raises a hand to run it through his hair in frustration. "Look," he says slowly. "About…about earlier. I shouldn't have run off like that."

Castiel blinks. "It's understandable," is all he says.

Dean laughs a little sourly. "You've never been in a situation like that before," he points out. "Unless you're having a raving sex life without telling me. How the hell would you know what's understandable or not?"

"It was obvious that you were as uncertain of the situation as I was," Castiel points out quietly. "And considering that you're emotionally constipated, running away was a predictable reaction."

Dean sputters. "Emotionally what? Hello, pot, meet kettle!"

A crease appears between Castiel's eyebrows. "What?"

His tone is one he reserves for occasions when he's especially confused, and Dean grins despite himself. "Never mind. But seriously, man, angel calling a human emotionally constipated?" He shakes his head. "Kind of hypocritical."

Castiel doesn't buy the distraction. "The choice of phrasing is trivial," he says as a hint of impatience leaks into his voice. "Dean, I have work to do."

He makes as if to turn away, and Dean reaches out and grabs his wrist. "Hey." Castiel doesn't turn to look at him, standing rigidly and staring off to one side like there's something fascinating on the grubby wall. "Cas, look at me."

There's a moment in which Dean thinks that Castiel might pull away, and Dean's heart seems to skip a beat in his chest. Then, slowly, almost unwillingly, Castiel turns his head to look at Dean. Dean takes a deep breath, pushes the warring thoughts out of his mind, and then kisses Castiel.

Castiel's hands flutter uncertainly before coming to a rest on Dean's shoulders. His mouth yields under Dean's questing touch, and Castiel's hands tighten around him. Dean inhales the scent of him and presses closer, something achingly fragile stirring inside his chest. Time seems to coalesce into a single perfect moment, in which all Dean needs to do is to savor the taste of Castiel. No guilt, no worry, just—Cas.

They eventually break apart for air. Dean finds himself sucking in deep breaths he's just run a marathon, and even angel control can't hide the fact that Castiel's doing the same. Castiel looks at him dazedly for a moment or two, his lips slightly parted in surprise. Dean can't help looking at Castiel's groin, and he grins a little as he discovers that, yep, without Grace in his system, Castiel is fully functional and ready to go. "You've, uh," he says with a gesture downwards. "Need help?"

Castiel gapes at him: he seriously just blinks and stares in a way that clearly indicates he's not fully there. "Help?" he manages at last, swaying a little on his feet. More than little amused, Dean guides him to sit on the nearest bed. "I," Castiel says, and that seems to be the extent of his vocabulary.

"Cas," Dean says carefully. "Do you want this?"

Castiel sucks in a deep breath. He looks at Dean for a long moment, and Dean watches in fascination as the last of the angel mask falls away, leaving something incredibly helpless in its place. "This isn't—" Castiel begins in a whisper. "I shouldn't—"

"Neither should I," Dean admits in an equally soft voice. "But I won't tell anyone if you won't."

"Duty," Castiel whispers, and Dean's suddenly uncertain if Castiel's still talking to him. "Work—grief—"

"And love," Dean blurts out, uncaring if that means he's totally the girl in this relationship, because _fuck_, the ache is almost physical now and if he doesn't let it out he might fucking explode. Castiel looks at him uncomprehendingly, and Dean remembers the perverted way the angels have twisted the word, turned it into the opposite of what it's supposed to be. "Not angels, something new," Dean says, knowing that he's not making any sense at all but needing Castiel to understand. "The human way."

Castiel shakes his head, but it's not a denial, exactly, more…confusion. "I don't understand," he says simply. His gaze is fixed on Dean's in a silent plea for revelation, but the problem is that Dean's never been good with words or emotions. Hell, maybe he really is emotionally constipated.

"If you could go back, Cas," he says at last. "Today, right now, if you could go back and be part of the Host again, sergeant in the Nest of Peace. Would you?"

Castiel hesitates. After an almost interminable pause, he says very quietly, "No."

"Would you stay here?" Dean asks, tightening his fingers on Cas' shoulders. "With humans, with emotion, with drugs and demons, and with—" he takes a deep breath— "me."

Silence. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, and he can hear his heartbeat pulsing in his ears in the ominously long silence. His heart feels like it's going to burst out of his chest any moment, and he has to forcibly shove the pressure away. Damn, damn, _damn—_

The light touch on his face makes him jump. Dean opens his eyes involuntarily, and it's his turn to gape. In his case, it's at the small, almost indiscernible smile on Castiel's face. "Perhaps I was wrong calling you emotionally constipated," Castiel says softly. The dry observation takes a moment to make its way through Dean's beleaguered brain, and all of a sudden Dean finds the strength going out of his limbs. Castiel steadies him with a hand on his hip, easing Dean down onto the bed next to him.

"Was that a yes?" Dean manages.

Castiel looks at him. "Yes."

"Oh."

Dean waits for his head to stop spinning at the sudden burst of adrenaline. Castiel waits for him patiently—well, not so patiently, if the way he angles for another kiss is any indication. "They won't be awake," Castiel says, and it's enough of a non sequitur to give Dean pause. "But perhaps it's a moot concern, if no such taboo exists—"

Dean's eyes focus on Joe and Ryan in the other beds. "Uh," he says, which is rather heroic considering the way his brain is spinning. "Taboo? Um, are you talking about—now—_oh_—now? Cas?"

"Yes," Castiel says. His voice is huskier than ever, and Dean shudders as that primal region of his brain responds instinctively to that tone. "Now."

With that very angelic demand, Dean finds himself pressed flat against the bed. Castiel's mouth, frantic and hungry, trails kisses down his neck. For a guy who had his first orgasm just that morning, Castiel learns _very _fast, and Dean does his best to keep up. It takes him two tries to grasp the hem of Castiel's ridiculously flappy trenchcoat and peel it off, by which time Castiel has already pulled his jeans down.

Dean swallows hard as Castiel looks at him as only an angel can. This time, the look is even more examining than usual, considering that Dean's pinned under him on the bed and half naked. "Like what you see?" Dean finally manages as the silence stretches on. He tries for glib and probably misses by a mile, but he can't find himself to really care when he sees the responding spark in Castiel's eyes.

Castiel leans forward, the heat of his body pressing against Dean's as he pushes for another kiss. "Show me," he murmurs as they part for breath. "Tell me what to do, Dean."

"An angel taking orders from a human?" Dean laughs into his mouth. "Isn't it usually the other way around?"

Castiel gives a low growl that has Dean's cock jumping to attention, straining against its pinned position against Cas' thigh. "Do as you're told," he says, and Dean gives a groan as Castiel deliberately rubs against Dean's pinned cock, giving him just enough friction to make him crave more. Castiel's still got his clothes on, the bastard, and Dean wants them off, _now—_

He reaches out for the hem of Castiel's shirt, but Castiel knocks his hands aside with one swift movement. "Didn't you want me to show you?" Dean gasps as Castiel works his way down Dean's neck, nipping against his collarbone in little bites that are both pain and pleasure. "Wasn't going to do anything else, Cas, I swear—"

His words are muffled as Castiel pushes up the hem of his shirt, bunches it up on his shoulders and pulls it off over his head. "I've decided to teach myself," Castiel announces, and then he proceeds to demonstrate the efforts of his self-education. Castiel's teeth trail down Dean's collarbone, and Dean finds himself letting out a keening whine as Castiel latches around his nipple, licking in slow, deliberate circles. Dean squirms desperately for some more heat against his straining cock, but Castiel keeps him trapped firmly against the bed.

Cas raises his head and locks gazes with him, and that's all the warning Dean gets before Castiel's hand reaches down and gives a broad sweep up Dean's cock. Dean jerks his hips upwards involuntarily, rutting into Castiel's hand with helpless abandon. Castiel slips his other hand into Dean's mouth, and Dean finds himself sobbing around Castiel's fingers as Castiel trails his fingers over the soft skin of Dean's balls in a surprisingly delicate dance.

"How does this feel?" Castiel murmurs. If Dean's capable of forming a coherent sentence, he'd tell Cas to shut up and get on with the program, but as it is, he just presses up in a wordless request for more. Castiel pulls his fingers out of Dean's mouth, cups his cheek, and leans in for another kiss. Dean gives another weak sob, and Castiel effortlessly brushes it away.

"Cas," Dean finally manages. "Please, Cas, _please—_"

"Dean," Castiel breathes in reply. His hand wraps around Dean's cock and tugs lightly, and Dean gasps as that extra heat sends him tumbling over the edge. The orgasm hits him with overwhelming force, and Castiel holds him still until he finally comes back to earth. Castiel's hand moves in gentle rolling motions, milking every last drop of pleasure out of Dean.

Dean lies on the bed, sucking in air and finding himself hypersensitive to its smell and taste. Castiel falls onto the bed next to him, and Dean turns toward him, inhaling the peculiar tang of dust and smoke and steel that is all Castiel's own. "Thought you were new to all this," Dean finally says when he feels like he can string two words together. "Pretty fucking amazing for a novice."

"Angels learn quickly," Castiel tells him. There's just a trace of smugness in his tone, one that anyone would easily miss if they didn't know him. "And my instructor was adequate."

"Just adequate?" Dean asks, vaguely offended.

Castiel shrugs. "I'm certain there's more to learn." He shifts slightly, and Dean realizes that Castiel's still hard. He looks up to see Castiel watching him calmly, his blue eyes somehow more open than Dean's ever seen them before. He trails a lazy hand down Castiel's cheek, and his heart lifts as the edges of Castiel's mouth quirk upwards in what just might be a smile.

"Well," Dean says slowly. "In a matter of speaking, yeah."

"Such as?"

Dean has to force himself not to smile. He links his wrists behind Castiel's head and returns the angel's bland gaze with one of his own. "I don't know if you're ready," he says, poker-faced. "I mean, I'm sure there's a lot of other stuff you should be doing right now."

"True," Castiel agrees calmly. "Dr. Robert was planning to begin the first series of injections today," he says. "No doubt he will want me to assist him."

"Injections, huh?" Dean murmurs, freeing a hand to smooth over Castiel's hair. "Sounds kinky."

"Yes, recording autoimmune reactions is extremely stimulating," Castiel says, dry as ever.

"I'll pass," Dean says, wrinkling his nose.

Castiel looks at him for a moment before leaning down to kiss Dean. "I really do have work to do," he murmurs. "Our window of opportunity is short."

"An angel's work is never done, huh? Dr. Robert's a fucking slavedriver."

"Not really," Castiel says slowly. "It's more because we want to catch Ryan before the fever starts up again. An antipyretic could interfere with our results."

"Ryan?" Dean asks with a frown. "What's he got to do with it?"

"Variation A," Castiel says. "The first of the binding agents we've devised with his antibodies. An experiment is required to observe adverse reactions."

"Wait," Dean says. He pushes Castiel back, holding him at arm's length. "Experiment. What does that mean? You're going to inject Ryan full of crap?"

"No," Castiel says.

"Oh," Dean says. He relaxes back onto the bed, relieved. "Because for one moment I thought—"

"Excrement has nothing to do with it," Castiel continues. "It's a cocktail, if you would phrase it, of two parts thiazide to—"

"You're going to put that into Ryan?" Dean interrupts.

Castiel frowns. "Yes."

Dean pushes Castiel out of the way, looking across the room to where the boys lie asleep. He hastily pulls on his boxers and jeans before walking over to Ryan's bedside, looking down at the small frown on the younger boy's face. His hair is damp against his face, and Dean forces himself to keep his hand steady as he brushes it away. "Did he say it was okay?" he says finally.

"He hasn't woken up," Castiel says.

"_Will _he wake up?" Dean demands, something hard and sharp pounding at the edges of his temples.

"Unlikely," Castiel tells him. There's a hint of confusion in the angel's voice, and when Dean turns to look at him, there's a faint crease around his eyes. "Even if he would, it would only complicate matters."

"You think?" Dean says incredulously. "Cas, you're going to use him as a guinea pig for your experiments. You don't see something wrong with this picture? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"He won't be aware," Castiel says with a small frown.

"Does Dr. Robert know about this plan?"

"Of course," Castiel says. "We're devising the compounds together."

Dean grabs his shirt and pulls it on. He heads out of the infirmary, something peculiarly close to rage roiling through his insides. Rationally he knows that he's being unfair, though he can't really puzzle out why at the moment. The largest part of him, though, clamors that no matter how useful it is in the greater scheme of things, _you don't experiment on humans_. Castiel, at least, is an angel, but Dr. Robert should know better.

(He knows that he's angry for another reason, too, but it's hard for him to spell it out over the clamoring mess of _wrong wrong wrong _in his head.)

((()))

_5.2: Castiel_

Humans are confusing, fickle creatures. Or, Castiel thinks with a small sigh, emotions are. It astounds him as to how he and Dean can be having a peaceful conversation one moment, and the next, Dean is in an uproar. Castiel studies the younger male for a moment with a small frown, trying to work out the problem in his head. As smaller mammals do not respond well to Croat (even the minutest dose is easily fatal), the only possible subject would be a human. With the baseline antibody already in his system, the male is an ideal subject. Finding a cure for Croat addiction would be a large step forward for the somewhat pathetic human resistance. Therefore, they should go forward with the testing.

No matter how he adds the facts up, they come out to the same conclusion.

Castiel picks up his trenchcoat from the floor and slides it on, a small part of him acknowledging the fact that the clothing does indeed give him a sense of security. He will need it, he thinks, if Dean continues to be so…strange. He involuntarily pulls in a deep breath before heading out of the infirmary, closing the door shut quietly behind him.

He hears Dean before he sees him. He can hear Dr. Robert's gruff replies in between the shouting, though, and to Castiel's poorly trained ear, he sounds more amused than anything else. Castiel leans against the door, listening to the heated argument within. "Son, you stick to the field," Dr. Robert says, "and I'll stick to the infirmary."

"Does the council know about this?" Dean demands. "I'll file a fucking complaint if I have to. Since when have we allowed human testing, ever?"

"We've never needed to before. Circumstances have changed, get with the program."

"He's a _kid_. Hell, he can't be older than what, ten? You can't just kill him!"

"Who said anything about killing him? He's much more useful the way he is."

"He could wake up!"

"I doubt that, and even if he does, he wouldn't be lucid for long, trust me. Son, his cerebrum is cooked, but the hypothalamus and brain stem are in perfect shape, which are the parts we need. Even if he does wake up, he won't be able to process anything, you understand?"

"You don't know that!" Dean shouts.

"Who's the doctor here?" Dr. Robert says, and there's a note of irritation in his voice now. "When you get a degree from the Nest of Purity, come back and tell me—"

"I bet they cut up humans all the time in the Nest of Purity," Dean says viciously. "_Angels_ run the Nest of Purity, and you're trying to learn from them now? We're human; we don't write off our own!"

"We do when they're already written off," Dr. Robert says sharply. He sighs. "Dean, I get where you're coming from, I really do. But Ryan's long gone. All we can do is to make use of what remains."

"He's not a toy you can throw out!" Dean says. "He's got a brother, he's got family. You haven't even _tried_ to help him, have you?"

There's a brief pause to that, but it's long enough to convey a thousand words. "Son of a bitch," Dean breathes.

"We need him more than he needs us," Dr. Robert says coldly.

"You fucking monster," Dean snarls. "I will have your ass thrown out for this—"

"The rest of the council will look the other way," Dr. Robert interrupts. "If you haven't noticed, Dean, these are desperate times. We can't all afford to be so high and mighty."

"Ellen will back me. So will Bobby and Missouri."

"Last time I checked, you needed a five-vote majority to throw anyone out," Dr. Robert says coolly. "And three out of seven won't cut it. In case you're forgetting, I've got a council vote, too."

"Rufus will take my side. He voted against selling to Bela."

"True, but the collateral damage was relatively small. I'm the only angel-trained physician in this whole compound, Dean. Think before you accuse me before the council."

The silence this time is longer. Castiel moves instinctively, some last remnant of angel training that still clings. He pushes himself away from the door and ducks around the corner right before the door swings open and Dean storms out. Castiel cranes his head and watches Dean vanish down the hall, feeling strangely hollow as he watches.

He counts slowly to ten inside his head before turning the corner and heading into the lab. It's easy to pretend as if nothing has happened: Dr. Robert's hunched over the lab table with his hands in a competent flurry of motion. When he greets Castiel, his voice is cheerful and excited as if his conversation with Dean never happened.

((()))

"They're probably going to kill me, you know."

"Don't exaggerate," Castiel says quietly. "They would hardly go to all this trouble if you were to be eliminated."

Gabriel gives out a small snort as his eyes flick over the assorted IVs. "Right," he says, sounding tired. "You just keep believing that, little brother. I didn't know you had such faith in the humans."

A part of Castiel wants to protest that—he doesn't have faith in the humans, not really. "Things have changed," is all he says, feeling that while it's completely inadequate, it's also the only explanation he can give.

"You don't say," Gabriel says, sounding tired. "The humans are letting you wander around now?"

"To an extent."

"They trust you?"

No, of course they don't, Castiel thinks. He's useful here. He contributes, and in return, they tolerate him. Until he steps over the invisible line they draw, and then he reverts to being their enemy. The memory of the disgusted look on Dean's face twists a little deeper, and Castiel hates that his pain shows in his face.

"Well," Gabriel says, breaking the silence, "if it makes you feel better, they never trusted me, either."

"It was supposed to be different," Castiel says, the words spilling out before he can stop them. "With Dean."

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. "Different? Different how?"

Castiel feels a strange, sudden burn of kinship to Gabriel, even though he's never liked the archangel. He takes a deep breath, wondering just how much to give, how much they can share. "It's not as simple as I thought it would be," he says at last. "There are two aspects to…everything. Physical, and emotional."

"I'd imagine that the emotional bit is giving you the greatest headache, huh?" Gabriel's eyes are far too perceptive, and Castiel suddenly remembers that Gabriel's been Fallen for more than ten years now, and more importantly, he's been through all this already. "Damn, I knew it. Have you fallen for him?"

Castiel frowns. "I was already Fallen."

"Not Fallen," Gabriel sighs. "Not as in Fallen from the Host. I mean, you know. Fallen for Dean."

Castiel hesitates. He'd like to say that he doesn't understand what Gabriel's talking about, but the truth is that he does, a little bit. "I'd stay with him," he says.

Gabriel laughs, and winces as it clearly causes him pain. "Ow, fucking broken ribs," he says, rubbing his side. "But damn! I knew it. I knew it was coming, little brother." He laughs again. "Dean's always got a thing for the angels. You should've seen him and Anna."

"Anael?" Castiel says cautiously, and he dislikes how the mention of Anael seems to stir something ugly in the pit of his stomach. 'What does she have to do with anything?"

"They were together for a while," Gabriel says. "After Anna Fell, they hooked up. And once the Grace kicked out of her system, completely, they had some crazy fits of passion, let me tell you." He leans forward, eyes bright. "Have you guys done the nasty yet?"

"Nasty?" Castiel echoes, feeling as if the words are coming from very far away. "What do you mean?"

"You know. Sex." Gabriel gestures at Castiel's groin, and Castiel feels his next breath come in a little sharper than usual. "Anna and Dean couldn't get their hands off each other for a while." He snorts. "Course, that blew to pieces after Dean left Hell, but hey, they had some good times together."

"Oh," Castiel says faintly.

"Yeah," Gabriel says. Castiel watches him as if he's a lifeline, and a small frown appears on Gabriel's face. "You look kind of sick, Castiel. Like you're about to hurl."

"I'm fine," Castiel says.

"Right." Gabriel's silent for a moment, and then something seems to click in his eyes. "Ah."

"Where were you, Gabriel?" Castiel asks. It's the coward's way out, changing the topic, but Castiel has absolutely no interest in pursuing this topic further. "How did you escape with the humans?"

"Not very subtle, brother," Gabriel chides. He pauses, and then adds, "You're jealous, aren't you? Of what they had together?"

"Anael is gone," Castiel says as calmly as possible. "I won't speak ill of the dead."

"Right," Gabriel drawls. "Am I to guess that happy times with Dean are in fact, not so happy after all?" Castiel tries to keep his face blank, but Gabriel's far more practiced than any human at discerning angelic expressions. "Oh," Gabriel says after a moment. "I see."

"There's nothing to see," Castiel says through numb lips.

When Gabriel speaks again, his voice is softer, losing some its caustic, mocking edge. "Dean's a lot of things, Castiel," he says. "Quick to anger, quick to hurt. Although he's trying. Or he was trying, last time I saw him." He laughs, a little self-deprecatingly. "Hell screwed him up pretty bad, and that's why he lost what he had with Anna. I think he was trying not to hurt her, but you know, good intentions and everything."

"And so I am expendable, then," Castiel says, and he winces as he hears the amount of venom in his voice. Castiel takes in a slow breath, trying to control himself. He doesn't like feeling this way, feeling like he's a replacement for everything that Dean wants but cannot have—Sam, Anna. "The convenient target so long as I keep to his rules."

Gabriel's quiet, and Castiel gets up, pacing back and forth. That's another thing that's new; restlessness, the need to work frustration from his system. In fact, he thinks moodily, there's very little about his post-Grace existence that's pleasant.

"So," Gabriel says after a moment. "Trouble in paradise, I'm guessing."

"This is hardly paradise," Castiel snaps before he can stop the words.

"Yeah, there's a marked lack of chocolate," Gabriel says. He sighs. "Castiel. Cas. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Castiel says. He glances at Gabriel—the only other angel here, the only one who can even vaguely understand. He forces himself to speak as calmly as possible, reminding himself that it's Dean he's upset with, not his brother. "I think there are more pressing matters at hand here."

Gabriel sighs. "Yeah," he says at last, accepting the diversion. "There are." He smiles thinly. "And it's off to interrogation as soon as I'm patched up, trying to weasel every last scrap of information I have." He rolls his eyes. "It's not like I owe them anything."

Castiel hesitates. "I'll do what I can," he says slowly. He's not got much to back the promise up with, seeing as he's just barely tolerated here. But this is his brother, and if Dean has taught him nothing, it's that kinship isn't something to be thrown away lightly.

Gabriel must know what Castiel's thinking, but he doesn't call him out on it. "I'd appreciate that," he says at last. "Try to keep my skin in one piece and everything."

Castiel looks down at him. "Excuse me," he says finally. "I'll come later."

"I'm not going anywhere," Gabriel sighs, and then Castiel leaves the room.

((()))

Castiel doesn't wander around much, but there are a few rooms in the compound that he finds soothing. He sits in one of them now; it's an old storage room that's stocked with dusty books. Castiel finds the archaic idea of information transmission to be oddly charming, and the scent of them is reassuring.

He picks up one of them now, running his hands down the cracked leather spine. He doesn't recognize the names inscribed on the cover, not that he expects to—human literature from the Dark Ages are not a topic oft-covered in the Nest of Peace. He looks around at the stacks around him, musing a little on the proclivity of humans. For a species that seemingly can't stop fighting, they produce astonishing volumes of text.

Someone clears their throat from the open doorway. Castiel doesn't bother to look up, knowing from the change in scent and sound that it's Dean. "Thought I'd find you here," Dean grumbles. Keeping his head down, Castiel tries to analyze the sound. Dean sounds tired, but the rage is gone from his voice.

Castiel doesn't say anything, waiting. He opens the book and runs his fingers down the worn pages without turning to look at Dean. And Dean breaks first, as humans are wont to do. "Do you know what Dr. Robert is doing?" Dean demands. Castiel remains silent, and Dean continues, "He didn't even try to save Ryan, did he? He just wanted a guinea pig for his experiments, and voila, mission accomplished. Since when did we stoop to killing kids?"

"You forget," Castiel answers quietly, "that you are speaking to an angel."

"You've never cared about a kid, Cas?"

"The Nest of Joy takes care of its own," Castiel says. He focuses on the crisp print on the page, taking some comfort in the solidity of words. They don't change, not like the people from which they came.

"Yeah, I figured," Dean mutters. He's quiet for a moment, and then he says, "They're not machines to be programmed. You can't just stick orders in us and make us dance to your tune, Cas. And they're not expendable, either." He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I took care of Sam," he says finally. "After we left. For years and years." He snorts. "And I guess I've never stopped."

"You see Ryan as Sam," Castiel says. It's a fairly easy conclusion to draw, and he can tell by Dean's hitch in breathing that Castiel's hit a nerve. "And you think that neither can be saved."

Dean laughs, and it's an ugly, harsh sound. "Stop psychoanalyzing me. _Angel_."

"Emotionally constipated human," Castiel returns. "Am I wrong?"

There's silence for a moment, and then Dean says roughly, "They're not pawns to be used. _We're_ not. We're human, not…"

"Angel?"

"I was going to say _dead._ You know, as opposed to alive."

"Very tactful." Castiel snaps the book shut, suddenly tired of the game. "What do you want, Dean?" He turns to look at Dean, and Dean winces slightly.

"I want you to stop him," Dean says finally. "Say no. Dr. Robert wouldn't get half as far as he would without your help."

Castiel raises an eyebrow. "Why would I do that?"

Dean gapes at him for a moment before spluttering, "Because it's wrong, Cas! Castiel, please. You need to trust me on this one."

"You're asking me to sacrifice a potential cure for thousands of addicts by saving one brain-dead human," Castiel answers. He feels oddly detached from the expression on Dean's face, and the barely-hidden anger and confusion in his eyes. "You can see where I might be a little confused."

"When does it stop, then?" Dean snaps. "It's just one brain-dead human now. You're telling me that Dr. Robert's going to stop at that? He'll be moving onto Joe next if Ryan doesn't work out, and then, hell, maybe he'll decide to start putting others under his knife. It's a hell of a slippery slope, Cas."

"A hypothetical slope," Castiel says. "And even if it were true, a few humans are an acceptable price for the majority."

"Very angel," Dean says bitterly. "Do you even know what it's like to be human, Cas? I'm not just talking about emotion, but about all the other stuff. Connections, family, children, life."

"Of course not," Castiel snaps, suddenly impatient. "I'm an angel. I do what I must, I obey as I'm commanded. And as soon as I can't fulfill these functions, them I'm useless."

Dean flinches, and Castiel wonders why. Finally, Dean says in a low voice, "That's not true, Cas."

"Isn't it?" Castiel challenges. "Angels function by logic. At least it doesn't allow us to hide from what's patently obvious." He turns away and closes his eyes, fighting to keep the sudden flare of anger under tight control. Finally he says quietly, "I'm fully aware of your opinion of what I am."

"Well," Dean mumbles, "At least you're trying."

"I'm an angel," Castiel says tightly. "I can't be anything else. And have you ever considered, Dean, that the angels might have the upper hand precisely because of what we do?" Dean's head snaps up, giving him a wild, almost accusatory look. "It seems that you constantly try to walk a line between ruthlessness and compassion, never quite succeeding to be either."

"Way to hit a guy where it hurts," Dean says testily. "Have you ever considered, Cas, that it's not just the victory that counts, but how you get there?"

Castiel shrugs. "And I repeat—that's not the angel way."

Dean jams his hands into his pockets, and Castiel gives a small inward sigh. He returns his gaze to the book, his eyes skipping aimlessly over the text. He's aware that Dean's walking closer, but it still takes all his training not to flinch as Dean puts a hand on his shoulder. Dean's silent for a moment before his hand squeezes Castiel's shoulder. "Come with me, Cas," he says quietly.

"I've already given you what I can," Castiel says dully, the anger leeching out him just as suddenly as it came. "What more do you want from me?"

"_I'm _trying too, Cas. I swear. But just—please. Come with me."

Castiel hesitates for just a fraction of a second before obediently laying the book down. He stands up and meets Dean's gaze squarely for a long moment before inclining his head in a silent command for Dean to lead. Dean's fingers thread briefly through his before letting go to push the door open. Neither of them speak as Dean leads him through a series of corridors Castiel's never been in before. "We're going up," Castiel murmurs finally as the current of moving air brings new scents to his nose.

"The compound's a lot bigger than you think," Dean says almost absently. "These are the family quarters. For those who don't or can't fight." Castiel finds that both of them are moving quicker now, almost at a run. "There are still a few places in Oldtown where life still goes on," Dean continues. "They're hidden, obviously. But that doesn't mean that they don't exist."

Castiel's breath catches in his throat as Dean turns to give him a wide, almost infectious smile. Before he can fully digest what it means, Dean reaches out and tugs on his arm, leading him for the last couple of steps necessary before they step out of the compound and into the open air. Leaves crunch under Castiel's feet as they walk out onto a grass-covered yard, the boughs of trees arching over the sky in an attempt to grab every last bit of sunlight they can. Castiel looks up into the greenery and feels something clench inside of him at the sight. The sunlight through the leaves is nothing but chaos, but at the same time it's infinitely more beautiful than the carefully controlled greenery that line the streets of Zion.

"C'mon, old man," Dean murmurs into his ear. "Let's find a place to sit."

Dean guides him to a wooden bench and eases him down into it. Castiel follows unresistingly, somewhat at a loss for words. He takes a deep breath as he studies the sight around him, trying to soak up as much detail as possible. His memory is no longer as sharp as it once was due to the loss of Grace, and he suddenly misses it with a renewed intensity.

"This shouldn't exist," he says finally. "And I should definitely not know that it exists."

"Now that you know, we'll have to kill you," Dean says easily. Castiel frowns slightly and turns to look at Dean. Dean looks lighter than Castiel's ever seen him before, and Castiel's never noticed just how much weight Dean carries until the burden falls away.

"Why did you bring me here, Dean?" Castiel asks finally.

Dean hesitates. "I wanted you to see who we are," he answers after a long pause. "Humans. Not just the way we appear on the battlefield, but as something less…something more."

"These are our Father's creations," Castiel says slowly, trying to understand.

Dean shakes his head. "It's more than that, Cas. The 'Father' doesn't get to have a say on who they are. They'll be free to choose who or what they want to be, not forced to by the bastards at the Nest of Joy."

"The Nest of Joy promotes harmony," Castiel says, the memorized words springing easily to his lips. "It prevents conflict from arising during the most important stage of development, and discourages discord from arising in the future."

"Another word for saying that they turn them into little duplicates of each other," Dean says. He doesn't sound angry, though. "Kill one, another one will take its place, isn't that right? Even in the Nest of Peace it's the same; you said so yourself, Cas."

"So you want anarchy," Castiel says softly. "Where human and angel are free to be whatever, whoever they wish to be. With no regard for restraint or control, to let human emotion dictate the whims of the day—"

"That's who we are," Dean says. "That's who you are."

"Human nature contains the seeds of its own destruction, Dean. The Republic was what brought us out the Dark Ages."

"It's turned life into a parody of what it's supposed to be," Dean says quietly. "Maybe the system worked at the time, but it's turned us into static copies of each other, and we can't change the way we're meant to. Emotion, passion, bits of chaos thrown in here and there—they're what keeps us alive, makes us different."

"And you treasure your individuality, even if it brings you pain."

Dean gives a small, painful smile. "Yeah, you could put it that way. With great pain comes great joy and all that." He sighs. "This place—this park—it's a place where a lot of us grew up. It's been here for a long, long time—a bit more than a generation, I think." He reaches out, pushes Castiel lightly on the shoulder. "And long enough for three angels, too."

"How open-minded."

"Yep," Dean agrees. He tilts his face back, and Castiel watches in quiet fascination as the patterns of sunlight gild the line of his throat. "That's us, always open to new ideas. And new people." He turns to give Castiel a small smile. "We kept you alive, anyway."

"Because Anna asked you to," Castiel points out, the old ache returning. "Otherwise you would've willingly shot me on the spot."

"To be fair, you were asking for it," Dean tells him. "Landing on our roof like that. Scared the fucking shit out of me, you stupid angel." He snorts, rubbing a hand across his eyes in a tired gesture. "Getting Sam and Anna captured."

Castiel tenses slightly at the mention of Sam and Anna. "You miss them."

"Always have, always will," Dean says quietly. Castiel glances at him, but Dean doesn't appear to be angry or enraged. Instead, Dean trails off into silence, his palm smoothing back and forth over Castiel's shoulder in an absentminded gesture. Castiel closes his eyes, uncertain of what to say or do next.

"I spoke with Gabriel," he says at last. He's not sure why he says it, but he can feel Dean tense next to him. 'They're going to interrogate him soon."

"What?" Dean asks, sitting upright. "Gabriel's here?"

"He came in with Joe and Ryan," Castiel says.

"A man," Dean mutters as if reciting something from memory. "He's here?"

"He's here," Castiel confirms quietly. "He's in bad shape, but he's here."

Dean looks poised to jump up and run for the infirmary, but after an interminable moment, he finally relaxes back into the bench. "Well, fuck," he says at last. "I guess if he didn't know anything the first ten times we asked him about Sam and Anna, he couldn't possible know anything now."

That's right, Castiel thinks distantly. Gabriel doesn't know where the Nest of Love is. He couldn't possibly know.

Castiel tries to push away the sharp clarity of his next thought, but it insistently pushes at him, refusing to let go. He's kept his silence for this long, he tells it; so why should anything change now? Castiel takes a deep breath, trying to swallow down the ugly jealousy that rises. He has Dean only because Dean doesn't have Sam. And if Dean gets Sam back…

Castiel doesn't want to be just a replacement for the rest of his life. Enough of this wavering, he thinks. If it's an either-or case, he'd much rather know sooner than later.

He shakes his head as if trying to physically dislodge the thought from his brain. "Some things aren't meant to be said."

"Sorry?" Dean asks, looking over at him. Castiel glances at him, something lurching inside of him as he realizes that he spoke the last sentence out loud. Dean gives him a small, self-deprecating smile. "You're right, I guess. We can't all live in denial forever."

Castiel bows his head. "No," he says. "Of course not."

He feels Dean's hand brush his cheek lightly before moving up to card through his hair. The weight of his hand is reassuring, but it's also somehow a condemnation, as if he's taking something that he doesn't deserve.

"Dean," Castiel says, and he treasures the way that Dean turns toward him. Castiel hesitates and chooses the coward's path, putting it off for one moment longer. "It seems that I am a bit unattached at the moment," he says. "An angel is created to serve, after all."

"So be your own master," Dean suggests. "It worked for Gabriel, at least."

Castiel shakes his head, drawing upon the formality of words to give him the courage he needs. "No," he says softly. "I don't think that's the way it works." He looks at Dean. "You would be the logical choice."

Dean laughs. "I don't need a butler, man, if that's what you're saying. Cas, it's fine. I'm totally self-sufficient, you know. And I don't—" he hesitates, and then says, "You don't owe me anything."

"I do," Castiel says. "For Sam, at least." The words have a strange finality to them, as if they were carved upon a cremation stone.

Dean's mouth twists slightly to one side. "Cas, it's…there's nothing we can do about it."

Yes, there is. Don't hide from it, angel.

"I know where the Nest of Love is," Castiel says, feeling preternaturally calm as the words finally come out. "And I know how you can save Sam."

_Epilogue_

The next twenty-four hours are a blur. The others, naturally, are skeptical as to the veracity of the information Castiel provides. There's always that probability that Castiel's lying to them or at the very least, badly mistaken. But Dean knows that he's not the only one to lose loved ones to the Nest of Love, and eventually, Dean manages to wrangle a small, six-man crew to help him break in. It sounds like a ridiculously small number, but it makes sense after some thought—they don't have a prayer of freeing the prisoners there by sheer force, so stealth is their only option. Dean will take what he can get.

It's not that simple, of course. Very little ever is.

((()))

"Did you know all this time?" Dean asks Castiel when he finally has a spare moment. Castiel's sitting on their bed, and the only reaction to Dean's question is a sharper-than-usual inhalation, not enough to be called a gasp.

"I knew," Castiel says. His voice is inflectionless and perfectly calm. "The Nest of Love is nothing if not rigid in its structure."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

A long silence. Finally, Castiel says, "Did I have reason to?"

"Yes," Dean says, exasperated. "All this time, Cas! You _know_ how important Sam is to me. Didn't you think I'd jump at any chance to save him?"

"Yes," Castiel says. His eyes flick up to look briefly at Dean's before looking away. "To the exclusion of all else."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Dean snaps. "He's my brother. Do you expect me to just forget him?"

"I notice that you've stopped petitioning on Joe and Ryan's behalf, now that you have news of Sam," Castiel says blandly. "One wonders what other things you've dropped for your brother."

"For your information, I told Ellen about what Dr. Robert's doing, too," Dean says. He sits down heavily on the bed next to Castiel, studying the angel's impassive face. "As soon as I get back, I'm going to bust that guy's sorry ass. And I'll have you know that I put in a good word for Gabriel with Ellen, too. So I haven't forgotten about them."

"Obviously not." Castiel's voice is as cool as if he were talking about the weather.

"Cas," Dean says tiredly.

Castiel's hands twitch slightly, and Dean's eyes are drawn to the movement. Impulsively, Dean reaches out and stills the movement with his hand over Castiel's, interlacing their fingers together in a tight grasp. "What're you afraid of?" Dean asks quietly.

Castiel turns his face away. "You should concern yourself with Sam."

"I am," Dean says. "I have. I always will. Doesn't mean I can't spare a minute here or there to wonder about you."

"Angels as a rule are remarkably one-dimensional," Castiel says flatly.

Dean snorts. "I'm sick of that tired argument, Cas."

"It's what I am."

"It's what you hide behind when you're scared. It's what I accuse you of when I'm pissed. That's unfair, and I'm sorry." The words are surprisingly easy to get out, and he presses on, needing Castiel to hear every word. "But it's not true, and we both know it."

"It doesn't matter," Castiel murmurs.

Dean shakes his head, surprised by the sudden vehemence rising in him. "You're not an angel," he says sharply, needing to hear the confirmation. "I sure as hell wouldn't be doing this if you were," he adds before leaning in and demanding a possessive kiss from Castiel's lips. Castiel holds out for a few seconds, but as Dean reaches up to pull on that mussy black hair, he gives out a small sigh and yields to Dean's hold. They fight for dominance for a moment before the kiss gentles almost as if by mutual decree, drawing a soft, breathless moan from Castiel. Dean savors the taste of Castiel, pressing in greedily before he finally has to pull away for air.

Castiel turns his face away as Dean leans in again. "It's not just about that," he says. His pupils are dilated and his lips are red, but he still manages to speak calmly.

"Then what is it about?" Dean presses.

Castiel hesitates. Dean tilts Castiel's chin up, refusing to let him look away. Castiel hesitates for a moment before his gaze flicks to up meet Dean's. Castiel still has that angel Look that scrutinizes Dean from head to toe, but Dean's capable of standing up to it now, or maybe because he's got nothing to hide. "I am…redundant," Castiel says at last, very quietly. "I had information of value. Now you know what I do, and there's no point in this anymore."

"Fuck," Dean says feelingly. "I wasn't keeping you around to weasel intel out of you, Cas! That was never the point. Why should anything change now that I know?"

"Not two minutes ago you were demanding to know why I didn't tell you sooner," Castiel says softly. "Sam comes first in your life. I understand that, Dean."

Dean shakes his head. "Cas—what the hell do you think we've had all this time? You think I'm just going to throw that away?"

"You were missing a piece, as was I. Circumstances made the arrangement expedient."

"You're not a fucking substitute for Sam," Dean says, exasperated. "Why is this an either-or situation, Cas?"

"Isn't it?"

The intensity of the question takes Dean by surprise. He leans back for a moment, thinking how best to order the chaotic swirl of thoughts in his head. Castiel watches him, blue eyes steady and unwavering. Finally, Dean says, "Come with us, Cas."

Castiel tenses—almost imperceptible, but Dean can feel the change in tension. "To the Nest of Love."

"If you want to, I mean." He takes a deep breath. "I wouldn't feel right without you to back me up." He reaches out, twines his fingers through Castiel's. "I want you with me. Sam's a part of me, yeah, but it wouldn't feel right without you there."

"You've survived without me this long." Castiel's voice is closed off, indicating nothing one way or another. "I doubt your companions would be happy to have an angel along. My own brethren will not be pleased, either. I've betrayed the Host in more ways than one."

Dean sighs. "Do you trust me, Cas?"

There's a brief moment of hesitation, and then Castiel says softly, "Insofar as an angel can trust a human, yes."

It's not exactly a declaration of undying love, but Dean accepts it. "Then we'll stand together," he says, quietly but firmly. "Whatever problems crop up, we'll deal with them as they come, but without this stupid angel-human shit clogging up between us."

"The 'stupid angel-human shit,'" Castiel says slowly, and Dean smiles a little at hearing him swear, "is what makes us who we are. The rules that create order."

"And the prejudices, the discrimination, the morons trying to punch your lights out because of what you are," Dean says, shaking his head. "Sticking by something because it's the way that things have _always been done_ makes no sense."

"And you see us as the revolutionaries who bring about a new world order?" Castiel asks, and there's a definite dry note to his voice now. "We're certainly the ones to do it, then."

"Well, if a stick-in-the-mud angel can master sarcasm, I'd say anything is possible," Dean says, grinning slightly. "And by the way, yes. Someone's got to do it. And who better than an emotionally constipated human and a fallen angel?"

Castiel's silent for a long moment. Dean wraps his arms around Castiel and holds him tight as Castiel begins to shake, hardly noticeable at first, but growing with an intensity born of fear, uncertainty, but ultimately, relief. When Castiel's gained back some of his control, Dean reaches out, gently easing the trenchcoat from his shoulders. "Dean—" Castiel breathes softly as he presses a kiss into Dean's palm.

"Cas," Dean says quietly in reply.

Tomorrow, they'll save Sam. Tonight, their names tied together seem to linger in the air, enough that nothing else needs to be said.


End file.
